Mirayle
by Rainstorm Amaya Arianrhod
Summary: Mirayle's easy life as Lirael's youngest child is collapsing. There's trouble in the Kingdom and outside she shouldn't have to deal with- a necromancer, her sister handing her the Abhorsen's duties -and if she can't learn to cope, she's as good as Dead..
1. A Beginning

A/N: Next-gen. I do love it. Anyway, this will be a crossover due to those mysterious things known as plotbunnies taking a firm hold in my head. This will be Garth Nix crossed over with LOTR. No major characters in LOTR involved. Enjoy. If this bombs, it's Kally's fault.

Dedication: To Kally. For what, I don't know.

Disclaimer: Nothing here belongs to me, with the possible exception of Mirayle, Susellen and Filris (Filris SAYRE, that is.)

* * *

See the land spread out before you? That's The Old Kingdom. It's been there for so long, that if it had an actual name other than that, it's been lost.

That grey line you can see? That's the Wall, and down there that thin line in the blue ocean the harbour chain of Belis Mouth.

Would you like to see the people who run this country? The people who carry its lifeblood- the Charter –in their veins? They are not as numerous as they once were, but there are enough of them.

See the white city we come to? Belisaere. The capital; and up there, the white palace on the hill, that's the palace. Out to sea, the sea of Saere; in the distance, if you look hard, you can see the guard towers of the chain.

Up the hill, up that road; do you see the green gardens filled with flowers? The laughing people? Belisaere is a place of happiness now. The practice courts, past the ones near the barracks that everyone uses, filled with Royal Guards who are off duty- you saw their companions stalking the Palace walls on lookout, joined by Princess Ellimere, who isn't supposed to be up there –and killing time, to the quieter ones.

You can hear laughter here too, but it comes only from two sources, a man, and a woman. They are older than they were, and wiser, perhaps, but they still take joy from each other. In short, they are in love.

There are many threads of silver in their hair; the woman's black, straight, and tightly bound back, the man's short, brown, and curly. No-one watches as they spar, just them; and they are audience enough for each other.

I take it you recognise the Abhorsen and the King? Good.

And now to the west. Slightly to the north- not Estwael. Further.

It's cold here; the icy blue-white expanse before you is the Clayr's Glacier, between the two mountains. Go closer. The people you see are the Rangers of the Clayr. Tough people.

Go inside. Swoop through the corridors. The people with the white dresses and moonstone circlets are seers; the children with the blue tunic are just that. Children, without the Sight.

It's not cold in here; it's positively warm, in fact, and slightly humid. That's because the Clayr use water to heat it. They are as old as the Nine Bright Shiners. That's old enough for anyone to be, let alone a whole family with a traceable lineage. If they held hands with their mothers, and _their_ mothers held hands with _their_ mothers –presuming that none of the Clayr died, which is not true- then there would be a very long line of seers.

Ah. The double doors. Through here is the single greatest stock of information, and knowledge, and history, and things that ought not to be freed in the entire world.

It's a Library. The Great Library, no less, and there is its queen- Vancelle. In the black waistcoat.

Vancelle is a powerful woman. The sword at her waist has been wielded by many people, including Lirael Goldenhand. But we have not come to see Vancelle. The young woman we search for is not here.

Here she is; up that ladder. In the yellow waistcoat, with long black hair in two plaits. She should not be up a ladder. There are sendings who are supposed to do that for the librarians.

She has a Charter mark. In her left hand pocket are a set of panpipes. In the right is the Dark Mirror.

This woman is a historian and a Remembrancer. She is eighteen years old, and her name is Filris.

Let's leave the Clayr's Glacier.

Out here, south, it is warmer. Down there is a Charter Stone. It was broken until a few heartbeats ago, and now it is mended.

You can probably see the people who did the mending. Look closer.

A man with brown curly hair, and a man with blond straight hair. They both look slightly familiar. So they should. The blond man is Filris' father. The curly-haired man, her cousin. Their names are Nicholas Sayre and Prince Sameth. Nick and Sam, for preference. Prince Sameth is a Wallmaker. He mended the stone with his own blood. Royal blood. See the white scars on his hands?

Important as they are to the Charter, and to the threads of story and history, present and past, they are not whom we look for ultimately.

A few miles to the east is a woman. She fights to bind a Dead thing. Only a Mordaut, but a strong one. Listen to her bells, but not too closely. Ranna will bring you sleep, and that is what she rings now. She has dark hair, and snow-pale skin, but one hand is golden. She, too, carries a Dark Mirror and panpipes- the Dark Mirror the original made hundreds of years ago, older than Filris' Mirror, and the panpipes perhaps twenty years old or less. She wears gethre armour, which is more common than it used to be. See the Dead thing sleep forever, see the marks of healing she places on the woman the Mordaut road. She is no necromancer. She is the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. Her name is Lirael Goldenhand. She is Filris' mother, Prince Sameth's aunt, Abhorsen Queen Sabriel's much younger half-sister, Nicholas Sayre's wife.

She is more important than young Filris Sayre, Nicholas Sayre or even Prince Sameth. But she is not the one we are ultimately looking for.

The Wall, at last. The barrier between Ancelstierre and magic. The Ancelstierrans, if they only knew it, owe their magic- and Dead-free lives to the long-dead Wallmakers, and countless Abhorsens, and Kings and Queens whom they have upon occasion sought to kill. Ah, irony.

There is a place down there, a few miles from the Perimeter, that we should visit, but not yet, not yet.

This is Corvere. A capital. Filthy, isn't it? Grey. See that house? We enter there.

We are in a drawing room, lavishly appointed. Someone has excellent taste and plenty of money. See the dark-haired young woman in the corner, dressed in green? She bears a Charter mark, too, but this far south it is not only inactive, but barely visible. She feels no connection to the Charter. She is very far from home, but she smiles and seems happy.

The worst thing to know about Susellen Sayre, twenty years of age, daughter to the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, is that being this far from the Charter and her family does not really upset her.

Let's leave. Ancelstierre is like a washed-out watercolour compared to the Old Kingdom, but there is one more place to visit within it.

It is further north, close to the Wall. Near Bain and the Perimeter, but rather closer to the village of Wyverley.

It was a grand stately home once; Wyverley House. But the last occupant of the original line had a rebellious moment and left it as part of a trust fund to become a boarding school for young ladies. So it is now Wyverley College, a boarding/day school.

It has a special importance, for a school. In the middle of one of the green lawns of the grounds, there is a white marble obelisk. The names on it will never be forgotten by those who, by lucky chance, are not on it.

_Ellimere McKinnon, Jacinth Green, Colonel Mark Horyse..._

It was forty years ago when a great army of the Dead burst across the Wall and into Ancelstierre, killing indiscriminately. Bells tolled for the dead and the Dead- parish bells, for those like Jacinth Green and Ellimere McKinnon, and the Abhorsen Sabriel's bells, for those like Kerrigor- the Dead Adept responsible for the sorry mess the Old Kingdom was in at that time.

Now, though, the obelisk is a piece of history, a tragic event remembered by the survivors and learnt off by heart by those born years later.

We search for someone like this. We have followed a trail of kinship, to Belisaere, the Clayr's Glacier, an obscure location nine leagues or so from High Bridge, an even more obscure location somewhere to the east of that last one, to Corvere, and finally- here.

She is standing by that knot of students over there. Go closer.

The two girls in the middle must have been fighting. They are scratched and dirty and one of them has a nosebleed. They look to her; she has authority. See the gilt crown on her lapel, above a nametag and the legend UV? That means she's a prefect.

Do not follow the other girls as they split up. Instead, stay with the prefect.

She has dark hair. It is shoulder-length, not very thick, and untidy. It is dark, but not quite black. Her eyes likewise are hazel, not the almost-black of most of her family members. And unlike her aunt, mother and sisters, she tans. Sort of.

Like Susellen, she has a Charter mark, but hers is easily visible. She wears glasses that seem different from the ones other girls who need them buy. That's because she didn't buy them- her cousin Sam made them for her.

Her name is Mirayle. She is sixteen, Lirael's youngest daughter and indeed youngest child. She is clever. She has never walked in Death. She fights with two swords as her uncle taught her, something frowned upon by the school's fencing master, although he can't deny she's good at what she does.

She's happy, or at least fairly untroubled. That will change.

Last week, it was twenty-one years to the day that Orannis was bound. Trouble is already overdue. The storm gathers.

Mirayle stands unknowing at its centre. Just a prefect; just a friend; just a youngest daughter who doesn't know what to do with herself.


	2. A Jailbird Waiting To Happen

**A/N: **Enter, from stage right... **Please read and review!**

**Dedication:** To Lally, a.k.a Saeleth, who reviewed -the only one to do so- even though she avoids crossovers and next-gen. huggles

**Disclaimer:** Only Alis and Mirayle belong to me.

* * *

Alis Weatherall was the kind of child that optimists call 'full of potential', pessimists call 'a jailbird waiting to happen', sensitive people call 'difficult', and blunt people call 'a right pill'.

She was eleven years old, mischievious and quick, and she didn't see the point in lessons. She was spoilt, the school didn't challenge her mind, and she was small and skinny. She had watery blue eyes and thin blonde hair.

At the moment, she was skipping school. This school was Wyverley College. Needless to say, she was not supposed to be skipping her lessons, but given that it was the first day after autumn half-term holiday Alis didn't expect the teacher to notice very quickly that she'd gone. And it was only Mathematics.

Alis had been at Wyverley College for only half a term. Her previous school had labelled her 'clever, but lazy', the school before had said that 'she had intelligence, but was disinclined to use it' and before that, she'd been homeschooled.

She trotted down the path, keeping a wary eye out for approaching gardeners who might want to know why she was out of class, and turned into a rarely used footpath into, of all places, a piece of thick woodland.

Of course, it was gated, and naturally it was out of bounds –Alis had found that everywhere interesting was out of bounds, and that included the Old Kingdom- but that didn't bother Alis. She had done far more serious things that were against the rules than go down a measly little path.

The piece of woodland in question was only ever used for Upper Fourths' Orienteering lessons, which took place in the Spring term only. Had Alis known this, she would have been delighted- a safe refuge in every term but the Spring!

What Alis did know was far creepier. Upper Fourths and older told many stories of the girls who had vanished, never to be found, in that wood. Or the horrible things they'd seen, and the mushrooms that some girls had picked, fried in the prefects' room, eaten, and then dropped dead...

These stories did not scare Alis. Very few things actually did, but they were real, corporeal fears. The stories simply made her very curious, and Alis always acted on curiosity.

Alis was about to come across something rather fearful and certainly corporeal.

She walked quickly down the path. It was quite overgrown; evidently the gardeners at least had believed the Upper Fourths' tales.

Then, she stopped, just before turning a corner above a small scree. She could hear people, talking- well, specifically men. Quite cross men.

"So look at the map!"

"We're not on the damn map!"

"Of course we bloody well are! Just because we took a right turn into a clearing doesn't mean we turned OFF THE MAP!"

There followed a series of swearwords that Alis did not know. She leant against a small tree and peered downwards.

"Where are we?"

"You tell me!"

"SHUT UP!"

The last voice was a voice of some authority. Alis listened harder.

"Hark at the captain," someone muttered.

"Yes. Listening to me might be a good idea," the man who had shouted agreed. "We can't be far from people-"

At that moment, Alis realised the tree was not enough to bear her weight. It was creaking. "Oh, no," she whispered.

"What was that?" the 'captain' spoke again, sharply. "A child? And what is the creaking?"

Alis tried to move backwards, but the stones skittered out from under her feet.

"Declare yourself, or-" someone called.

Alis screamed, and fell.

A large portion of the scree fell with her, and she didn't stop screaming until she landed. She opened her eyes, sat up, and screamed again.

Several men stood over her. They were wearing peculiar clothes- breeches, not trousers, for example –all in browns, greens or greys, and they carried very serviceable-looking weapons.

"Only a girl-child," one of them said, sounding relieved. "No older than eight-"

"I'm ten!" Alis snapped, shot up, and started running, ignoring her new stinging cuts and bruises.

She charged up the path. None of them followed her; they were too shocked. They turned to their leader. He shrugged. "I reckon," he said, "we wait for her to return with reinforcements."

Alis vaulted the gate, and ran for the prefects' room, forgetting that she'd been breaking the rules and therefore running to fetch prefects might not be the most self-preserving of ideas.

She ran along the empty corridors until she reached the wooden door with the gold words 'Prefects' Room' on it. It was locked. She flung herself at it, hammering at it with her fists-

_Inside, several sixteen-year-olds turned to face the door._

"_Someone wants to get in," Mirayle Sayre remarked._

"_Who?" another girl asked._

_Mirayle Sayre shrugged, carefully put her tea down on a coffee table, walked over to the door and unlocked it._

- it came unlocked, and she flew through, the door banging against the wall and some unfortunate person on the other side!...

Lucy Smith dropped her tea.

"Ow," Mirayle said, rubbing the end of her nose, and stepped out from behind the door, checking that she hadn't broken her glasses, and eyed the newcomer.

The prefect saw a ragtag, dishevelled Lower Third who should be in lessons. This spelt trouble.

"What are you doing?" Lucy snapped angrily. "Shouldn't you be in lessons?"

"Weird people," Alis gasped, out of breath, "in the wood. Swords!"

Sal Radcliffe glanced at the others. "You were in the wood? Weird people with swords?"

"Yes," Alis cried. "Quickly!"

She grabbed Mirayle's hand and tried to drag her out of the room.

"Calm down," Sal said. "These people. Men or women?"

"Men," Alis said, more slowly. "Not more'n ten. No- no marks."

"Charter marks," Mirayle inquired. "You mean they had no Charter marks?"

Alis nodded frantically. "Dressed funny."

"Dressed- funny?" Mirayle repeated. "Funny how? Were they from the school?"

"No," Alis said in answer to the second. "Dressed like- like-" she cast a fearful glance at Mirayle- "_Old Kingdom_." She whispered the last. She had come from near Corvere.

"You can't have been near the Old Kingdom in your life!" Lucy scoffed, tidying up the broken china and spilt tea. "Sal, Mir, she's lying. I know the type. You're from down South," she informed Alis tartly. "Everyone knows that down South they like to pretend the Old Kingdom doesn't exist."

"Lucy!" Sal cried.

"What? It's true, you know," Lucy snapped.

"It's also incredibly rude!" Sal replied.

"C'MON!" Alis almost screamed. "I'm TELLING THE TRUTH!"

All of the prefects started. "There's no need to shriek," Mirayle said crossly. She had been occupying herself with attempting to undo the knots she'd used to tie her swords to her skis, which were propped up in a corner. The need to tie them together tight had been perfectly obvious in Belisaere, but now she got to Ancelstierre they were about a hundred times harder to undo, and she wondered why she'd tied them quite so tight. "Oh... blast it. Sal?"

"What?"

"Have you got a pair of scissors?"

"Yes, and so do you."

"No, I don't. I left them at home." Mirayle looked sheepish. Then she frowned ever so slightly and looked around the room. Nobody noticed her agitation.

"Oh, Mirayle!" The ever-organised Sal walked over to her bag, pulled out a blue tin, opened it, and extracted a pair of scissors. "I don't know if they'll be strong enough to cut through your Old Kingdom twine."

Alis stared at them, agape. She'd just told them there were ten or so men, possibly from the Old Kingdom, with weapons in the wood, and all they were doing was sitting around discussing string!

At least the tall girl with messy hair was getting out swords of her own.

Mirayle carefully buckled the sword-belt around her waist and handed the scissors back to Sal. "So. Where did you say?"

"You can't be thinking of g-" Lucy cried, indignant.

"Oh yes I jolly well can, Lucy Ermintrude Smith," Mirayle said. "In fact, I am. Who's coming with me?"

Sal levered herself up from her chair with a sigh. About six of the others, mostly with Charter marks on their foreheads, followed her. "We'll just go and have a look at these mysterious people with sharp swords, shall we, Miray?"

"We shall, Sal," Mirayle acknowledged, and grinned. "What a way to spend a free period!..."


	3. A Confrontation

**A/N: **Enter, from stage left, the LOTR cross-over bit of this. Prepare for adolescent mood-swinginess and slight under-the-weatherness from Mirayle and accusations of witchcraft. Please **_read & review!_**

**Dedication:** To every reviewer I've ever had. A very merry Christmas/winter holiday to you all, and a better New Year.

**Disclaimer:** It is possible that Mirayle, Alis, Sal and other OCs belong to me, but it isn't likely. Henceforth, most of this literary grand opus belongeth to Garth Nix and J.R.R. Tolkien/copyright holder.

* * *

Mirayle trotted down the steps, keeping Alis's small figure in sight. "Slow down," she called.

"Bu-"

"Don't," Mirayle recommended.

"Mirayle-"

"It's pronounced Mih-ray-luh, not Mee-rail," Mirayle corrected rather sharply.

Alis subsided.

Sal hurried up to the front of the small group to walk with Mirayle. "This's a turn-up for the books."

"Depends on which book you refer to," Mirayle said. She was in something of a funny mood- a bit restless, slightly worried, and wishing she had someone to discuss this with seriously who understood the Charter and the Old Kingdom, like Filris. Big sisters had their uses.

Sal rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Don't you think it's a little peculiar that... well... random people should turn up in the wood?"

"Sal Radcliffe," Mirayle replied, "I've seen stranger."

"So no?" Sal seemed unpeturbed by her friend's sudden air of anger.

"Not in the least!" Mirayle said.

Unbidden, Mirayle's hand crept to her Charter mark. It flared as she touched it. She rubbed it.

"Mirayle?"

"What?" Mirayle asked crossly. "Can't a girl think?"

"You can when you tell me why you've been snappy, restless and uncomfortable the whole livelong day," the irrepressible Sal said.

Mirayle tripped, regained her balance and stared at Sal. "It's only twelve noon."

Sal looked as if she was trying to pretend that she didn't know that that was an attempt to change the subject. "Yeeees. Carry on."

Mirayle sighed crossly. "Damn you."

"You're welcome."

Mirayle looked at Sal. Sal looked back.

"Hurry up!" Alis yelled from by the gate to the wood.

"Not going to tell me?" Sal raised an eyebrow.

Mirayle shrugged. "When I know what it is, I'll tell you. All right?"

"All right," Sal confirmed, and then eyed Mirayle as if seeing her for the first time. "... if you brought your swords, why didn't you bring your armour?"

Mirayle looked at her blankly.

"... no, don't tell me. Something else you left in Belisaere?"

Mirayle found her voice. "No. It's in my room."

Sal rolled her eyes- "And you couldn't be bothered to get it."

"Exactly," Mirayle answered. Sal ruffled her hair. "Hey, get off!"

The path Alis had run up so quickly was actually quite long, and too thin for the girls to walk in anything more than single file. Mirayle was in front, for no particular reason, Sal just behind her, and Alis lurked behind them.

Mirayle was thinking. The weaponsmaster in Belisaere would have forty fits if he could see her now, walking at the head of a group of girls possibly going to confront an armed enemy, and off in a daydream!

Not a daydream. She reached up again and touched her Charter mark. It flared comfortingly at her touch, but still, still that... layer of no response. That layer that muddied the Charter, like a cloud hanging over it. Her head ached. She felt as if a band of cold had settled around her shoulders. She felt sore, as though she'd been weapons-practising heavily and taken a lot of falls. She felt empty inside.

Was this something to do with a lack of an obvious path in life for herself, she wondered. With Susellen the Abhorsen, and Filris the Remembrancer (cum scholar cum historian cum librarian), Mirayle found herself totally free to choose.

Choose what, though? she thought. Do I go to university? I don't have one subject I want to study. I don't have any flair for working magic on objects, like Cousin Sam. And I'm sure Wallmakers are not-

"AAAH!" she shrieked, and went the way of Alis- sliding painfully down the scree.

"Mirayle!" Sal cried in alarm, and followed more sedately.

"I'm fine," Mirayle muttered, going bright red. She stood quickly, and drew her swords.

She looked at the men silently. One stood slightly forward of the others; she presumed that he was their leader. They were all dressed in dull colours, and Alis had been right: they were very well armed, although there was not a Charter mark to be seen on either their weapons or their foreheads.

She cleared her throat. "Who are you?" Succinct and to the point, but not the most elegant or diplomatic of statements. The leader attempted to stare her down. Mirayle straightened to her full height, cursing her pale skin. It took a blush far too well. "I beg your pardon. I asked your identity." That was better, she thought.

The leader nodded slowly.

"Can't you speak?" Sal demanded.

"Of co-" a man who looked younger than the leader began, only to be squashed by a glare.

"We can speak," he acknowledged stiffly, "but we are not entirely certain whether we ought to inform a pack of adolescent girls of our identity."

Sal spluttered incoherently and Mirayle's knuckles tightened on her swords. "Do you know where you are?" Mirayle said angrily. "You are on the lands of Wyverley College. It _is_ a girls' school. Are you surprised that you're confronted by girls when you trespass?"

"Girls'... school?" the leader said slowly. "I was... unaware... that any such thing existed."

"I told you this wasn't Rohan!" the same man who spoke up before told his friend triumphantly, and quailed under another glare from the leader. Mirayle smiled. He sounded like one of her cousins.

"You tell us where you think you are and we'll tell you where you are," she said. "Fair exchange?"

He nodded and looked nervously at the leader, who sighed and shook his head. It looked as if he was going to refuse on account of the other man's apparent disapproval.

"Ignore him," Sal suggested.

"...All right," the young man said, sounding as if such an idea had never occurred to him before. "Well, we've gone off our map, but I think we might be near the north-eastern edge of Fangorn... there's some forest like this there."

"What?" Mirayle whispered to Sal. "Fangorn? Where's that?" Sal shrugged.

"Um," Mirayle said. "Well. I don't know where Fangorn is but this is near Wyverley, in the north of Ancelstierre. Near the Wall," she added helpfully, when some of the men whose faces were easier to read looked confused. "I would show you a map but it's up at the school and I might have left it at home."

"What is this Wall?" the leader asked.

"Nobody's quite sure," Mirayle informed him. "The simplest way of putting it is that it's stones, mortar and Charter Magic all put together hundreds of years ago by... you don't understand a word of what I'm going on about, do you?"

They shook their heads.

"Well," Mirayle said cheerfully, "this is Ancelstierre. No magic here, at least, unless you're in the north..."

"You said that this was the north," the leader pointed out.

"I did," she agreed.

The leader looked around. "I don't see magic."

"You haven't got a Charter mark," Sal told him.

"Charter... mark?"

"One of these," Sal explained, and touched hers. It flared obediently.

The trespassers recoiled; to them it looked like a flaming, angry scar. "What is _that_?"

"A Charter mark!" Mirayle reminded them impatiently. "We just told you! You see, it helps you reach into the Charter for marks, which all mean different things and can be pulled together to make spells... see?" She did a simple spell for a Charter light that she'd known since she was small.

"Witchery!" one hissed, and they all drew weapons.

"I am not a witch!" Mirayle exclaimed, justly angry. "Nor am I a necromancer, or sorcerer, or a Free Magic adept... or... or... anything else like that! I am a Charter Mage!"

"They're worse than the Southerlings," she muttered to Sal. "Believe in nothing, some of the older ones, and call Charter Magic an abomination of reality."

"Be nice, Mirayle," Sal cautioned. "They obviously come from somewhere far away, and they've not a clue how they got here- but that is no excuse to nock arrows!" she added, louder. Mirayle turned quickly, and yes, an archer had put an arrow to his bow.

"We don't intend to harm you!" she cried. "At least- not unless you harm us."

"Ah, but can we trust you to hold by that?" the leader said.

"Well-" Mirayle began, and then stopped, crestfallen. "You can't... ow!" A stab of pain went through her forehead and she reeled slightly. She felt filled up with anger when before she'd felt empty, all the upset about not knowing what to do with herself and nearly being shot and being squashed against a wall by a door rising, a blockage in her throat pushing upwards. "Dratted stupid of me to come here anyway... shouldn't've bothered. Horrible headache. Ow. Well," she addressed the trespassers, "_be _like that." She realised that sounded very childish, and forged on regardless. "I'm going back up to the school. When you feel more inclined to behave respectably, which in my book means no sharp objects directed at me or my friends, you can follow!"

"Eh... Mirayle," Sal murmured in her ear, "they're not misbehaving ten-year-olds, and you're behaving like-"

Mirayle turned on her heel, pushing through the crowd of other prefects. "_Don't care_."

"I'm sorry," Sal found herself apologising, although she couldn't quite work out why she was apologising to men who threatened her life. "She might be a princess or an important lady or whatever of some order back where she comes from, but she doesn't usually act like a spoilt brat... why am I saying sorry to you? Exercise in pointlessness." She waved amicably at them. "Well, see you later, I rather think. I'd better go make sure Mirayle doesn't do someone... _irreparable _damage. She can be quite nasty when she gets angry. Mind you, she always regrets it."

She curtseyed, and followed Mirayle up the path. Slowly, the other girls filtered after her.

The men all turned to their leader. He shrugged. The outspoken man wandered off to the edges of the clearing. "Well," he muttered under his breath, looking up at the path the girls had left by, "we made a fine mess of that."


	4. A Sickness

**A/N:** And again. **_Please read and review!_**

**Disclaimer:** Nothing is mine, with the possible exception of Mirayle, Sal, and sundry other students.

* * *

Sal hurried up the path after her friend. "Mirayle!" she cried, but Mirayle did not seem to hear her. She walked angrily ahead, eyes straight ahead, fists clenched. "Mirayle!" Sal wailed, and ran to catch up with her as Mirayle came to the gate.

"Don't come too close," Mirayle warned through clenched teeth. "I'm going to be sick." And sick she was, behind a bush.

Sal approached cautiously. "Oh, Mirayle." When the other girl had finished retching, Sal touched her forehead gently. "You're b-_ not_ burning up! You're being sick and you don't have a fever."

Mirayle straightened, wiped her mouth with the handkerchief Sal offered, composed herself and said dryly, "It happens. I probably just ate something that didn't suit me. It'll pass. I don't think I'll be sick again."

"It can't be a coincidence," Sal disagreed. "Why weren't you sick down there? You got worse with every inch we got closer to them. Iller. I could see you fidgeting on the way down." She touched Mirayle's mark. Mirayle jerked away. "It's sore."

"Sore?" Sal exclaimed and touched her own. It felt a little unreactive, yes, but not sore...

"Numb, is it?" Mirayle was retying her shoelace. "As far as I can tell, it comes on slowly."

"Comes on?... Why didn't I feel it before?" Sal asked no-one in particular.

Mirayle shrugged, and climbed over the gate. "I don't know. Everything Charter-related is strong for my family, you know that. It kind of... runs in the family... please tell me I explained that. Broken Stones, Free Magic... they're all particularly obnoxious for... my sort."

"You still haven't told me what Free Magic is," Sal remarked, following her friend.

"What there was before the Charter. Chaos. Works by perverted Charter marks. The weapon of necromancers. Haven't I told you this before?"

"You describe a concept as important as that in four phrases?!" Sal cried. "Come on, Mirayle! Detail?"

"You don't need to know," Mirayle muttered. She stumbled, and went pale.

"Mirayle! Are you going to be sick again?"

Mirayle flattened her palms against the yellow stone of the school and rested her forehead against it. After a while, she sighed, and moved away. "No. I don't think so. I need to lie down."

"You should," Sal agreed. "And go to Nurse."

"No," Mirayle said flatly. "No. I refuse to be cossetted," she added crossly, and then, in response to a disbelieving snort- "all right, maybe when I'm actually ill. Influenza counts, Sal. Unexplained..." she gesticulated, unable to say, "... little... blots... Charter-influenced... short-lived- oh I give_ up_. This, I should be able to deal with this."

"Why?"

"Because I should."

"That makes no sense." Sal kicked a pebble, and watched it skitter along the path by the side of the school.

"Neither does random lost people who dress sort of as if they're from home, have never heard of a girls' school, fear Charter magic, and carry business-like weapons turning up in a feeble little bit of woodland belonging to an upper-class boarding school associated with the Charter bloodlines," Mirayle pointed out.

"Now you put it like that," Sal admitted, "it sounds a little more ordinary. I wonder what my parents would think of this?"

"I don't know," Mirayle said. "I've never met your parents."

They walked on in silence, and turned to climb the steps to the main door. As they reached it, it burst open, and Mirayle narrowly escaped being squashed against a wall by a door for the second time that day. She didn't recognise the culprit, a lanky girl whose school uniform was at least two sizes too big, but Sal did. "Emilie?" she said inquiringly, looked at the girl harder, and then shook her head. "Sorry, Theresa," Sal said before the girl could correct her. "Who are you looking for."

"Mirayle Sayre," Theresa, who was clearly very out of breath. "Two messengers in the Visiting Parents room. Emmy's looking for her out the back, but I dunno what she looks like-"

"I'm Mirayle Sayre," Mirayle told her. "What messengers?"

"Scout, and police officer," Theresa said promptly.

Mirayle exchanged a puzzled look with Sal. "The Scout I can understand... sort of. But the police officer?"

Sal shrugged, and watched an expression of horror scurry across Mirayle's face. "I had better go and see what it is."

Mirayle and Sal found their way to the Visiting Parents room easily. It was just off the hall, and lavishly furnished. Mirayle turned to her friend. "You could come in with me. Moral support."

"No," Sal said very definitely. "No. They're your messengers. I shall be right out here if you need me. Surely you aren't scared?"

"Actually, I... am. What if..."

"Don't if, Mirayle," Sal said wearily. "Your messengers. If someone is... um... unexpectedly deceased... I will be here."

Mirayle looked at her, but said nothing. Then she turned, and knocked at the door.

"Come in," the headmistress called in fruity tones.

Mirayle looked back at Sal, and Sal nearly started towards her, to say, _Mirayle, I'm sorry_, and join her in the Visiting Parents' Room. Moral support and all that. But Mirayle smiled weakly, and pushed the door open.

But it was nothing important, Sal told herself- just a message, maybe two.


	5. A Preponderance of Messages

**A/N:** And once more. This is going to be very long. Please read and review!

**Disclaimer:** This is boring, for I am the cat who walks by herself, and all disclaimers are alike to me. Sorry, Kipling. Anyway, not mine.

* * *

Mirayle stepped into the room, and closed the door carefully behind her. There were three other people in the room, a rather muddy and uncomfortable-looking Scout sitting right on the edge of his plush seat and handling his bone-china teacup gingerly, a rather cleaner, poker-faced police constable and finally stout, placid Mrs. Greene, the Headmistress. The Scout stood, put his teacup down and bowed; he recognised her as the Abhorsen Queen's niece because she went through the crossing-point every holiday in order to get home. Mirayle bobbed a small curtsey. It did not wobble. This was for a simple reason. When your cousin is Crown Princess Ellimere, your curtseys do _not _wobble, because you have had to practise them until they don't.

"Miss Sayre," Mrs. Greene said. "Sit down, child, sit down."

Mirayle nodded, and sat. She looked around the room. "Theresa told me there were messengers for me."

Mrs. Greene nodded, and looked at the Scout, who took the last bite of a cucumber sandwich, swallowed, and cleared his throat. "From General Tindall to Miss M. Sayre at quarter to twelve this morning. General Tindall would like to know if you expected a messenger from the Old Kingdom." He spoke with a thick northern accent.

Mirayle shook her head. "No."

"There is one," the Scout said bluntly. "Not a Royal Guard, but with a clean Charter mark, the banner of the 'Clayr' –do you know what that is? General Tindall seems to know, but I can't find anyone else who does."

Mirayle nodded. "The Daughters of the Clayr. Seers. But they hardly ever see beyond the Wall, let alone come to the actual Wall... Excuse me. Did he or she give a message?"

"He gave a message that he would only give you the message," the soldier said, allowing a fatalistic Perimeter sense of humour to escape, "ma'am," he added, just in case he hadn't been respectful enough.

Mirayle blinked. "You are _sure_?"

The Scout nodded. "Very sure, ma'am."

"Thank-you," Mirayle said. She felt- a little disappointed, she supposed, a little anxious, a little... relieved. She didn't have to hear it now. _It might not be bad news,_ she reminded herself. A more cynical part of her just said, _Oh yes?_ "I think I'll have to see what whoever it is means by sending me cryptic messages in the middle of term." She glanced at Mrs. Greene, who nodded affably.

The policeman coughed meaningfully and straightened in his chair. "Excuse me, Miss Sayre." Mirayle turned. He also had a northern accent, but it was much slighter- a recent arrival at the police station? Possibly, her mind acknowledged, and sent the thought to the back of her mind.

"A telegram from your sister." He passed the envelope to her.

Mirayle examined it. The telegram had been rather hastily stuffed into the envelope and left unsealed, her name scribbled on the front. Misspelt, but not badly. She pulled out the telegram, unfolded it, and read it.

Three pairs of eyes riveted on her. She read it once, very fast, bit her lip, frowned, asked the policeman in a voice as fast and snappy as gunshots- "Where was this sent from?" and then- "No, sorry, I see. Corvere." She read it again, slowly, another frown growing. Then she put it down in her lap, folding it again with fingernail perfect creases, and looked at the assembled company, her expression one of complete puzzlement. "It seems..." she began, opened the telegram quickly and read it again, mouthing the words silently- "I'm sorry, this is most... my sister wants me to visit her."

"In Corvere?!" Mrs. Greene exclaimed, rattled. "My dear girl!..."

"No, Mrs. Greene," Mirayle said carefully, "An... airfield. Not far away, I think. I don't have a map at hand... Garland Royal Air Corps Airfield?" she questioned the Scout. "Do you know it?"

He nodded, a quick jerk of his head. "Yes, ma'am- forty miles or so from here. Maybe an hour's drive or so?"

"Why does Susellen want to meet you?" Mrs. Greene demanded. "I thought she was such a sensible girl!"

"She is," Mirayle said, with growing alarm. "Generally speaking. And she doesn't say why. Just says 'I have something very important to tell you' and that's it. Apparently she and Uncle Edward- do I _have_ an Uncle Edward?–flew up from Corvere this morning... 'are going to fly up on the morning of the twenty-ninth'... and sent a telegram ahead. _Uncle Edward_?" she asked no-one in particular.

The policeman stirred. "Miss?"

"Yes?" Mirayle said, thinking that if this was another complication to deal with, she would scream.

"What is your grandfather's name?"

"I must say, that's a rather personal- oh." Mirayle went red. "I understand. John, I think-or James?- oh, I see! _Great_-Uncle Edward! Why didn't she say so?"

The policeman remained silent. His expression seemed to say that he was not one to interfere with the whims of persons who were above his social standing. The Scout looked nonplussed. Mrs. Greene just looked very confused. "Child, evidently you must discover what, precisely, is exercising dear Susellen to such hysterical heights as sending you a message demanding your presence in the middle of a term, and what this other messenger needs to communicate to you, but, my dear, have you no idea what is going on?"

"None," Mirayle answered, looking down at the telegram. "None whatsoever. Today is just a very strange day." She realised that she had not yet told Mrs. Greene something important, and said- "Mrs. Greene? There is a slight problem with the little woodland."

"Has a tree fallen down?" Mrs. Greene inquired with the tone of someone who has received more surprises than she is used to, and then shot up in her seat. "Or- _my dear Mirayle, I hope you don't mean-_"

"No, no," Mirayle hastily reassured her. "Nothing Dead. As a matter off fact, nothing has died there in the last three or four hundred years, so it's practically an impossibility for anyone to raise anything, particularly on this side of the Wall."

"If you are certain," Mrs. Greene said more calmly.

"I am," Mirayle affirmed, and then added- "No, this problem's more of the, um, _human_ variety."

Mrs. Greene shot upwards again. "Trespassers? Have they harmed anyone?"

"No," Mirayle said, with an uneasy look at the Scout and policeman, who looked fascinated. Perhaps she should not have brought the subject up. "Actually, they appear to be more lost than anything else-"

"Oh, is that all?" Mrs. Greene interrupted, subsiding. "Just give them directions for Wyverley and escort them off the premises."

"-but since the place they're lost from is either totally imaginary or in another country entirely I don't know what to do with them," Mirayle continued, watching Mrs. Greene start back up again. The Scout was stifling a smile, and even the poker-faced policeman looked slightly amused. "Also," she added hesitantly, "they haven't harmed anyone _yet_, but they, um, thought my Charter magic was- well, witchcraft, and drew swords on us."

"Hikers from the South?" Mrs. Greene suggested, and then after a pause, "Students in costume playing tricks?"

"No," Mirayle said, having given the ideas some thought. "Those swords were definitely designed for use that involved gore, and blood, and other unpleasant things. And their accents weren't southern or northern, or even any accent that I've heard at home. They were completely clueless, too. Hadn't even heard of a girls' school before."

"Oh," Mrs. Greene said lamely. "Well, I... well... Mirayle?"

"Yes, Mrs. Greene?"

"How many of the Charter Mages here would you say are of a standard fit for a solid defence?"

Mirayle thought, ticking them off on her fingers. "Fifteen or so, not counting me."

"Excellent." Mrs. Greene stood. "Where is the Head Girl?"

"I don't know, Mrs. Greene."

The Headmistress walked over to the door, opened it, looked around and spotted Sal. "Ah, Miss Radcliffe. If you would do me the kindness of finding Miss McKilburn for me? Tell her to marshall the best twenty Charter Mages and take ten down to guard the entrance to the little wood. The other ten to patrol the grounds, _in pairs_. Emphasise the 'pairs' instruction."

Sal scrambled to her feet, said, "Yes, Mrs. Greene," and trotted off in the general direction of the Prefects' Room.

"Mirayle!"

"Yes, ma'am?" Mirayle said, remembering how commanding Mrs. Greene could be when she chose to.

"Go and fetch your coat, child, and your hat, comb your hair –it is a mess- clean those glasses, straighten that tie or get somebody to do it for you, sort out that collar for heaven's sake, wash your face, and Constable-"

"Harte," the policeman supplied.

"-Harte will drive you to this airfield. I shall tell the gardeners to wheel the car out. And Mirayle?"

"Yes ma'am?" Mirayle said again, halfway up the stairs to the dormitories.

"Be quick. Five minutes and no more!"

"Yes ma'am!" Mirayle called back down, and ran up the stairs.


	6. A Catastrophe

**A/N:** A long one. Don't get too used to it. :p**_ Please read & review!_**

**Disclaimer:** Nearly nothing is mine.

* * *

Mrs. Greene's car was like everything else she owned: luxurious and very comfortable. It was certainly more comfortable than a Paperwing.

Because it happened to be late October, it was rather cold, and Mirayle was thankful for the fact that the car was not open-topped. However, the person driving her hadn't said a word since they'd left Wyverley twenty minutes ago and she couldn't help wishing she'd brought a book, or perhaps a crossword; although she discarded that notion when they reached the bumpy, twisty country lanes as foolish.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Greene dragooned you into driving me to an airfield," she said awkwardly. "The Headmistress can be quite..."

"Quite," the constable said without taking his eyes off the road or a flicker of a change in his expression.

"If I could have stopped her..." Mirayle began, feeling as if she ought to apologize more. "But I really do need to find out what Susellen needs..."

"I understand." No expression whatsoever.

Mirayle gave up on conversation.

It took a little under an hour to reach the airfield. Mirayle got out of the car, thanked Constable Harte, and asked if he would mind waiting for her. In response, the man retrieved a copy of that day's _Bain Daily_ and began to read, totally ignoring the question. "Well!" Mirayle muttered under her breath, and turned away from the car, looking for her sister.

She spotted her. Susellen ran towards her sister, but it took Mirayle a moment or two to recognise her. Susellen had changed; she was wearing a fashionable tailored black suit and white blouse, her long hair had been cut, side-parted and curled so that it was in short black waves. She was also wearing quite a lot of make-up. "_Mirayle_!" Susellen was nearly crying. "Oh, you _came_! I didn't think you would! Oh, _sweetheart_! I've got so much to_ tell _you!"

"In the middle of term?" Mirayle protested, and submitted to being hugged within an inch of her life. Susellen even sounded different. She sounded like an Ancelstierran deb. "Susie, get off. You're crushing my ribs."

"Oh, sorry, darling. And yes the middle of term. Come on, there is a snack in the building over there. Surely you must want something to eat? Did you have anything before you came here?"

Mirayle looked back at the car. There was no-one in it; she frowned, and dismissed the thought. "No," she said, turning back to Susellen, "no on both counts, actually, I..." It suddenly occurred to Mirayle that this new Susellen, who dressed like a silly debutante, looked like a silly debutante and acted like a silly debutante, might well fuss over her if she told Susellen she'd been ill, which was something she didn't have time for. She had to get back to school in reasonable time, and then, of course, there was the other messenger. "... I'm not very hungry."

"Oh? I'm _ravenous_."

They started walking. Susellen linked arms with Mirayle, who detested the practice. "Aren't you even thirsty, darling?"

She really did sound like a debutante. It was unnerving. "Some tea would be nice if there is any. But, Susie-"

Susellen looked at Mirayle, a bright smile on her face. "Yes, Mirrie?"

"_What_?"

"Mirrie," Susellen said cheerfully. "We always called Filris Rissy-"

"We did?" Mirayle exclaimed. "You mean you did. And only to annoy her-"

"-and you two always called me Susie," Susellen continued, "so I thought you ought to have a nickname too."

"_Thought I ought to have a nickname_! Susellen, are you all right?"

"Oh, I'm fine. By the way, I think you should meet Uncle Edward. He's been so helpful about... I'll tell you later." Mirayle's sister pushed the door of the small building open.

The sisters entered a long, rather bleak room with lots of tables and benches, a small, empty snack bar and large windows along one wall. Only one table was occupied.

A tall man with grey hair combed back from his forehead with blue eyes like Mirayle's father's and an imperious Sayre nose similar to Susellen's or Filris's –Mirayle had escaped this particular family trait- wearing a navy blue suit, crisp white shirt and the slate-grey-and-red tie of a Sunbere alumnus, and carrying a gold-topped cane, sat behind what Mirayle could only describe as afternoon tea on a grandiose scale. He appeared to be reading; as she watched he nodded briefly, folded a piece of paper neatly, and secreted it in an inside pocket.

She stood in the entrance, boggling at what must be her great-uncle Edward while Susellen stepped forward. She was so confused she barely noticed Constable Harte slipping past her. Mirayle didn't bother to enquire what on earth he was doing, considering it likely that she would get a monosyllable answer at best.

Meanwhile, Susellen had called out, "Uncle Edward! My sister is here, at last."

The grey-haired man rose from the bench with a slight smile. "So I perceive, Susellen." He walked towards Mirayle. "A delight to meet you, great-niece. I have heard much of you from your sister." He looked at her, and Mirayle caught his eye. _Ah, a way in which he isn't like Dad_, she thought. _Dad's eyes aren't often cold, and never this... frigid_. Nevertheless, she held his gaze for a good few seconds before she took the extended hand and shook it, allowing her eyes to leave her great-uncle's with some relief.

"I never met you before, sir. Truth be told, my father's refusal to take any of us down to Corvere to meet our various relations is something of a family legend. Susellen hasn't yet told me how you came to cross paths." Mirayle felt her voice slipping into the Court tone and winced inwardly.

"A minor piece of detective work," the recently inducted into the peerage Lord Edward Sayre dismissed.

"Sayre connections, I suppose. Much like the good constable outside."

"Sayre connections," Edward Sayre acknowledged with a faint appreciative smile. "You are very like your father, you know. So... _investigative_. I vividly remember the Dorrance Hall fiasco in which he got involved..."

"Many people say so," Mirayle told him rather sharply. "The remark is in general followed by the information that I am much like my mother too. The Dorrance Hall fiasco, if I remember correctly, has a lot to do with ill-advised release of obscure Free Magic creatures and daisy-chains; another family legend."

"That would be the incident in question. I never met your mother, and am therefore unable to compare you to her."

"True."

"A cup of tea?" the baronet enquired, lifting a teapot. "Such an eloquent orator deserves refreshment."

Mirayle went slightly pink. "Yes, thank you, sir."

"Susellen?" the sisters' great-uncle offered, but Susellen shook her head mutely, compressing her lips and looking at something under the table.

"Out with it, Susie," Mirayle said, dispensing with ceremony, as soon as she held her teacup and saucer. "You summoned me- or was it you, Great-Uncle? I wouldn't be surprised, I must tell you –here to tell me something, or, um, several somethings. Just tell me them."

Susellen still looked reluctant. "I wish..."

"You always wish," Mirayle said without heat. "Thankfully the next thing that happens is you do. Spill, Susie."

In answer, Susellen stretched out her left hand to touch Mirayle's. Mirayle looked down at it, confused, and then her eyes widened as she tried to comprehend what she was seeing.

There was a diamond and sapphire ring on the third finger of Susellen's left hand, Ancelstierran in make.

Mirayle felt dislocated from the world. Hands that seemed not her own put her cup and saucer down on the table. She knew without looking that she'd slopped tea into the saucer. "Susie-"

"Engaged," her sister confirmed, her voice thick with tears. Mirayle looked up and saw that Susellen was indeed crying.

"Who?" she choked out, unable to determine whether she was just shocked, or upset. "At Corvere? Who?"

"Corvere," Susellen agreed. She wiped her eyes. "James Tindall. We're distantly –very distantly- related; his stepfather's second cousin is Ellimere's husband. Small world, no?" She smiled through her tears, and Mirayle managed to return a smile.

"But that isn't all I wanted to- _must_ tell you."

"I have guessed that you're leaving the Old Kingdom. The Charter, your _family_," Mirayle added bitterly. "Oh, don't start again, Susie. I take it I'm to get your bells-" her voice wobbled a bit, but then continued steadily enough- "bells, sword, and surcoat, and the book to Filris."

"No," Susellen said softly. She picked up a sack that must have been below the table, and lifted it carefully over the food, letting it drop at Mirayle's side. "Filris is a Daughter of the Clayr. Oh, she Sees erratically and often very weakly, but she is. A Seer. And a Remembrancer, too. Burden enough. She's happy there too. She would flounder as an Abhorsen. I can't take that from her."

"No!" Mirayle said quietly, and then "_No_!" she shouted. Susellen winced; Lord Edward Sayre remained impassive. "Susellen, you can't abandon the Kingdom just like that! You can't talk of not taking Filris' peace when you're stealing mine! I'm sixteen, in the middle of education! Maybe you should go home. Talk to Mother. You can't dump the bells and book and all that on me! I've never even touched the Book of the Dead- oops. Well, you can just keep quiet about that one, Great-Uncle Edward, because I'm in no fit mood to undo my words! I have no training _whatsoever_! Even Aunt Sabriel had read the book! Susellen-" she calmed a little- "you must reconsider."

A silence fell.

"No," Susellen answered her sister, tears running freely down her cheeks.

"I said you were very like your father," Edward Sayre remarked before his great-niece could explode. "Him to the life. I remember him blowing up at me in such a way- or _nearly_ doing so at any rate."

"You haven't seen my father in a rage," Mirayle snapped. "None of us has. They say the only time that ever happened in the Old Kingdom was when a Southerling tried to kill Mother. It was before I was born. If this is what it was like then, I pity the Southerling, because I think Dad could well have killed him!"

"I understand that the Southerling in question is to be pitied and is most likely dead," Edward Sayre said in that cool way of his.

"Quite likely," Mirayle said more softly, and then turned to Susellen. "Susie. You surely don't mean to do this?"

Susellen nodded her head, unable to speak through tears. Mirayle finished her tea. "I think I should return to school." She picked up the sack. "It was good to meet you, Great-Uncle. I hope we meet more often in the future. Susie..." Her eyes rested on her sister. "Live well, Susie, and don't keep your children from knowing who they are."

She curtseyed with some difficulty, turned on her heel, and left without a backward look.


	7. An Ultimatum

**A/N:** Sorry I vanished. Please **_read and review!_**

**Disclaimer:** Nothing mine.

* * *

A very effective exit, of course, but somewhat spoiled by the fact that Great-Uncle Edward said: "Mirayle," in one of those mild voices that somehow demand that you stop right now. Much to her irritation, Mirayle stopped, and turned to face him. "What?!" she snapped, more rudely than she'd meant to, but Lord Edward Sayre ignored the tone.

"I have received intelligence that a group of persons unknown and armed of uncertain origin have suddenly appeared in the grounds of your school."

"Yes, they have, and a damn nuisance they are too," Mirayle said defiantly, slipping in the 'damn' for shock value, but her great-uncle did not blink, holding her eyes with his own.

"Nuisance or otherwise, they cannot remain in Ancelstierre," Edward Sayre said quietly. "They are unknown aliens, without passport or identification. I am told that you found them. Mirayle, you have thirty-six hours to remove them from this country. After that, I cease to take any interest in this matter whatsoever, but I imagine that police custody will be... unpleasant, and deportation much worse. If, that is, a country of origin can ever be determined."

"You're inhuman," Mirayle said in a small voice, and a smaller smile crept onto the peer of the realm of Anclestierre's face.

"No, great-niece; merely in a position of great authority. There is, as you discover, little difference. Consider this a favour." The voice hardened. "Thirty-six hours, Mirayle."

Mirayle stared at him, and saw that he meant it. She nodded jerkily. "Thirty-six hours."

"I'm so glad we understand each other," Lord Edward said in a distinctly nice tone that Mirayle had heard on her father when the Northern ambassador had asked, in a bemused way, why a member of the Royal Guard had pushed a member of the ambassador's retinue into Belis Mouth. Nicholas Sayre had explained, in the very same tone that Edward Sayre was using now, that the member of the ambassador's retinue in question had attempted to force a proposition on a Guard, which was assault of an officer, which was a subject on which the Guard had firmly held _views_. The kind of views that leave people spluttering in the harbour.

"Goodbye, then," Mirayle said, and then added, on impulse, "I've never met any of my Ancelstierran family before, except for a second cousin twice removed who found out who I was and spent the rest of the party we met at avoiding me. Tell me, are they all like you?"

"_Very_ like your father," Lord Edward remarked, faint smile returning. "And since you ask- why, no. Goodbye, great-niece. If you leave now you will reach Wyverley in time to get to the Perimeter to answer that second mysterious message by three. And remember, Mirayle- thirty-six hours."

Mirayle curtseyed hurriedly, turned, and got into the car. She did not wave as they drove away.

Once they were into the twisty country lanes, Mirayle voiced something she'd been thinking since her great-uncle told her to get these- these, well, people out of Ancelstierre in thirty-six hours. "You told him, didn't you."

The man nodded.

"You're not going to talk to me, are you."

He shook his head.

"In fact, I don't even think Harte is your real surname and you wouldn't tell me if it was."

Now he nodded.

"Thought not," Mirayle said grumpily, and slumped into her seat, glaring at innocent hedgerows and gates as they sped along the road. Why her? she thought- Of all the members of her family, why her?

She spent the entire journey trying to find reasons why, but only found reasons why _not_, which wasn't comforting. Least powerful. Least learned. Youngest- well, not youngest. But too young for this. _What should I do?_ a part of her wailed, and another, cooler part answered: _See which way the river flows. The messenger is from the Clayr, he can tell us something._

But that only made her think: _What news is the messenger sent to break? Are any of my family dead or dying? What is wrong, so badly wrong, that I need know now? I swear half of the Old Kingdom knows I go to school in Ancelstierre, maybe half of that knows I board. I don't get sent messages, except in really special circumstances that haven't actually arisen yet and please Charter won't arise till I'm much older. I'm not important._

And there it was: _I'm not important._

_I'm not important. I'm not of consequence. I'm not old enough, or strong enough- Charter curse it, I don't think I'm brave enough to be important. I can fight, maybe. I've never actually tried to fight anyone I don't know, and who wants to harm me, so let's take that counter from the chessboard._

In that way that little things have of reminding you of people you probably won't see again, who've probably just bid you their final farewell, that reminded her of Susellen. I'm not any good at chess, even...

_"Check and mate," a girl said with a slightly smug smile, and re-tied her long dark hair back; it had been falling out of its tie. She looked perhaps sixteen, and rather pretty, with serious eyes and a strong nose. She glanced at the window, as if to suggest a trip outdoors._

_"It's raining," the other, younger girl, whose glasses were falling off her nose. "I can hear it. Don't bother, Susie, just tell me! How did you do that? You won again! That's the fifth straight match I've lost!"_

_"There's no secret, Mirayle..." the girl named Susie said. "Just practice."_

_The girl named Mirayle grumpily prodded a pawn two spaces forward, watching the Charter marks dance across its surface. "That is a secret."_

_"No. It's not," Susie told her with finality. "What is it that everyone says... Practice something. Practice is... practice makes..."_

_"Practice makes perfect," Mirayle muttered. "Ancelstierrans say it. Ancelstierrans aren't everyone, you know. I mean, for a start, there's the Old Kingdom, and whichever name the northern clans have put to their country this week, and, er... the ones on the Southern continent. Yes. The ones on the Southern continent. Stop laughing!"_

_Susie just smiled, and ruffled her sister's hair, to the inevitable cries of 'Geddoff!' from the annoyed girl. "What were you doing yesterday when you said it was your geography homework?"_

_"Putting the textbooks back together," Mirayle admitted sulkily._

_Susie shook her head. "And the day before it was your set book for Lit. You should be a Wallmaker."_

_"I shouldn't," Mirayle disagreed with the kind of alarming promptitude that suggests she's answered such statements before. "It took me two hours to put four textbooks back together. That's really slow."_

_Susie frowned. "Why didn't you ask someone? Cousin Sam, maybe?"_

_"He's busy," Mirayle said flatly._

_"He wouldn't mind, I'm sure. It'd only-"_

_"You don't like it when Mother tries to help you study the book," Mirayle interrupted. "Dad said that was very proud of you. He also says we're all allowed a little pride now and then."_

_"Still, I'm sure-"_

_"So'm I sure." The uncompromising expression on Mirayle's face was one had been handed down on Lirael's side from Lirael's grandmother, to Kirrith, skipped Lirael, and appeared in force in Mirayle and Filris. This particular expression was rarely seen on Mirayle, because she was generally an accomodating kind of girl, unless one crossed her boundaries. There was a very definite Line for Mirayle's friends, acquaintances and family to beware of; it varied from day to day, but it was always there, even at twelve._

_Susellen, that being Susie's full name, took one look at it and decided that Mirayle was being Stubborn, and there was no point in attempting any further remonstrances about 'if it's broke get somebody else to fix it', a policy which Susellen herself had long ago adopted without qualms. So she merely sighed. "I suppose I should go and do some of that studying now." She paused. "It doesn't come easy. You know that."_

_Mirayle remained silent, and watched her sister. _

_"You're not going to be remotely sympathetic, are you? Well, it's the most horrific thing. I don't need to hear about what the Lesser Madrul does with its avatar's intestines. It's disgusting, and you have to read it over and over again to commit it to memory. I swear it knows what I'm thinking. Count yourself lucky. No, it really doesn't come easy."_

_Mirayle put her head on one side, folded her arms and waited. _

_"I ranted, didn't I?"_

_"You did," Mirayle agreed._

_Susie eyed Mirayle with disfavour, and swept out of the room, slamming the door. "Very... teenagery," Mirayle remarked to the world at large._

_Then she pulled a book out from under a pile of others._

_Mirayle had lied. She hadn't finished mending the third textbook. _

_I can't even mend things!_ Mirayle thought indignantly_. Really, I'm the most useless of my family. No authority whatsoever. No particular talents. Just a Charter-damned good all-rounder!_

She tapped her fingers on the sack on her lap and stared into nothing.

I wish...

_I wish I was special._

_I wish I was important._

_I wish I was necessary._

_I wish..._

"Miss Sayre?"

Mirayle blinked and looked at Constable Harte. "Sorry, I dropped off. Um. What is it?"

"We're here."

Mirayle looked out.

Sal Radcliffe was sitting on the steps to the school looking slightly harassed. When she saw Mirayle, she stood quickly, and waved. The door was open behind her.

Mirayle got out of the car, and Sal ran towards her.

"Oh, Mirayle you wouldn't believe what's happened, those men have come up to the school-"

"They've done _what_?"

"Come up to the school, and they say they apologise for, well, nearly killing us but he didn't say that exactly- and where have you _been_, and what have you got there, and-"

"Susellen's bells."

Sal's jaw dropped. "What- the bells- but you said-"

"Yes, I know. Susellen's getting married, and, I think, never crossing the Wall ever again. And she's passed her bells on to me. And please don't remind me, because I must be the least useful person to hand them on to, you see, I don'y know anything about it and... well, just don't remind me."

"Why?" Sal asked, closing her mouth.

"I'll either throw something, or burst into floods of tears."

Sal hugged her. "Sounds a good enough reason to me."

Mirayle hugged her back. "Me too. Now, I think I ought to ask Mrs. Greene if I can make a trip to the Perimeter..."


	8. An Inheritance

**A/N:** Sorry it's been so long. Hope it's not OOC. **_Please read & review!_**

**Disclaimer:** Anything by Garth Nix is not mine.

* * *

The entrance hall of the school was a hive of activity. Thirds and younger students were indulging in a little unrestrained gawping from the stairs and the doors of their classrooms, older students were goggling with slightly more dignity, the prefects and Sixth and Fifth Forms were clearly attempting to control an impulse to copy their juniors, and the teachers, flustered, were milling around, trying to keep the girls in some semblance of order. In the centre, Mrs. Greene stood, short, stout and barking orders and reprimands right, left, and centre. The Scout, seemingly forgotten, stood behind her, and in a loose huddle, Mirayle saw the men who had caused this difficulty.

They looked thoroughly sorry for themselves. Mirayle could see the glowing remnants of Charter spells splattered here and there over themselves and their accoutrements, cast strongly. In spite of herself, she grinned; evidently the defensive lines and patrols Mrs. Greene had conjured from her older pupils had been effective, spurred on by adrenaline. They weren't in one group- the man she had identified as the leader stood in the centre, with all the others around him, but they were mostly in small clumps of disgruntled friends. Also, they were soaked- Mirayle guessed that someone had turned the soaking power of a line of schoolgirls armed with full buckets of water and hoses on them, or perhaps they had merely interrupted a gardener watering the herbaceous borders. The grin grew.

Finally, Mrs. Greene drew breath to shout a new set of orders- possibly something to do with the class of Lower Second Formers hanging over the banisters of the stairs, gaping at the chaotic scene –the Scout tapped her on the shoulder and indicated Mirayle. Mrs. Greene hurried towards her. "My dear! How is Susellen?"

The thought of Susellen and her sapphire and diamond engagement ring wiped the grin from Mirayle's face. "Engaged."

"How w-" Mrs. Greene inspected the growing scowl on Mirayle's face and cut off the sentence. "My dear-"

"Mrs. Greene, I need to go to the Perimeter. Actually... I need some leave from school. There's a family... problem to deal with, and I must be there. Susie has... left us, and there are... consequences." Mirayle struggled for the words. "My great-uncle has told me, too, that I must get these... people..." she glanced at the bedraggled newcomers "out of Ancelstierre... or there will be consequences from that too... and I can't leave them to the consequences. It's not fair, and I'm really, really sorry- you can't know how sorry... but I have to. I _have_ to."

Mrs. Greene started to talk. She was a little angry, thinking that Mirayle was being a gallant little fool. "You child. Don't be silly, girl. We shall send a message to the Abhorsen and your parents and they will knock you out of this foolish assumption that you have to take responsibility for events out of your control-"

Mirayle felt like she was living on another plane of existence, eyes near blank, her body responding sluggishly to her commands. Everything seemed slowed down a little, and some part of her mind had taken over and was directing her actions, while the rest of her wondered dreamily what came next. "Thirty-six hours," she muttered under her breath, and then louder, "Thirty-six hours!"

There was quiet, and then Mrs. Greene began again. "What does thirty-six hours have to do with anything at all? You are ill. Go up to your dormitory and stay there, and think about what you are saying-"

"I am thinking," Mirayle said carefully, trying to keep her words from wobbling. "And do you know what I am thinking about?"

There was a little more quiet. Mirayle felt Sal's astonished gaze boring into the back of her head. She continued. "I am thinking that Susellen was a fool when she left me the bells. I am thinking that I can't possibly do anything."

She glared around the room. "Now I'm thinking it's not like me to grandstand and I am wondering what's got into me. I don't know, but I have to keep going..."

"You have to keep going..." someone echoed very softly from behind her, and a hand squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. Sal gently pushed her way past Mirayle, and spoke to Mrs. Greene, a slight comforting smile on her face, an expression Mirayle recognised as Sal's I-am-going-to-twist-you-round-my-little-finger expression.

"Mrs. Greene, it's clear to me something peculiar is going on. Obviously, Mirayle can't leave these men to the authorities. Who knows what would happen? If Susellen's engaged, too, she may never cross the Wall again and she had great responsibilities in the Old Kingdom, we know that much. It's only natural that Mirayle should join her family briefly to find out what happens after this upheaval. You are in a state of shock, Mrs. Greene, perhaps... a lie down..." Sal's voice tailed off gently, and she steered Mrs. Greene to the Head Girl, who thanked Sal with a small nod of the head and quietly took Mrs. Greene off to find a steadying drop of medicinal brandy and some smelling salts.

Mirayle closed her mouth. Her jaw had dropped somewhere around the second syllable of 'something'. "You're..." she said in an awed half-whisper to Sal, "... eloquent. I didn't know you could do that."

Sal grinned sourly. "A silver-tongued little tale-teller, you mean." She patted Mirayle on the shoulder. "When shall we twain meet again..." her voice tailed off again, uplifting with more than a hint of teasing to it, and sure enough Mirayle rose to the bait and scowled. "Don't you quote bad poetry at _me_."

Sal laughed. "You go and pack, Miray."

"Mirayle," Mirayle corrected.

"All right. And Mirayle-"

"What?" Mirayle asked, turning back to Sal.

"Pack for a good long time."

She hesitated, and then she said "Yes..."

More firmly: "Yes." Then, she went to pack, and Sal went to explain the new developments to the confused men.

"I don't care who you are!" she cried with exasperation some time later. "I really could not care less, you fool! My name is Sal Radcliffe, and yours is Tomas and then something that I can't for the life of me pronounce! This is an accepted fact! However, you just can't bring yourself to believe that if you're not out of the country in less than two days the police will come and _get_ you! Next, of course, it will be a short sharp trip to the cells, and probably a short sharp knock over the head if you struggle! Worse, don't go imagining that they'll let you go on any proofs that you don't have on you! You don't have a passport among you! You-"

One of the Rangers, as Sal had come to know that as the name what they called themselves, had timidly raised a hand.

Sal stopped in mid flow, glared at the Ranger with narrowed eyes, and hissed, "What?"

"What's a p-"

Sal buried her face in her hands and shrieked, to the discomfort of the Rangers and mild amusement of a couple of prefects who were in the vicinity. "Don't you see? You don't know a thing about this country! You don't know your rights, you don't know where you are, and here your kind of fighting is sorely out of date!" Her voice rose a few notes and volume notches. " And yet you persist in believing that staying here is better than going to the Old Kingdom, which is dangerous, true, but they have magic and mages who can work out what on earth you did to get here and it's far more your sort of place!"

"How do you know what our sort of place is?" the captain of this squad of Rangers demanded with a cold expression.

Sal nearly acted on an impulse to seize the man and shake him. "It's written all over your faces! Everyone in this country who knows no better will think you're from the Old Kingdom anyway! They fight with swords there and nothing machine-made works!"

"Have you ever," the captain enquired, picking his words with a dreadful froideur, "visited this Old Kingdom?"

Sal blushed scarlet with anger and frustration. "_No_!"

She shouted, and although the hall was quiet today and the other Rangers had long ago fallen into silence, some occasionally wincing at their leader's more patronising statements, the place seemed to reach new, distinctly embarrassed depths of stillness.

Sal glared at this Captain Tomas of the unpronounceable surname, and wished to heaven Mirayle would hurry up and come down and scare this coldly insolent fool into quietening and listening to her when she said that he was in danger. However, she didn't hear any clattering and cursing –she presumed that Old Kingdom armour clattered, having knocked over a suit of armour at Bain Museum when she was ten on a school trip by mistake and thus having an intimate acquaintance with the clattering tendencies of armour. As for the cursing, cusses of varying degrees seemed to follow Mirayle around, usually due to fingerprints on her glasses or missing items, although she rarely voiced them aloud, preferring to mouth them discreetly. "I have not been to the Old Kingdom," she informed the Rangers loudly. "My parents are Ancelstierran conservatives who hate the mention of even the name. How on this green earth would I get to the Old Kingdom? But Mirayle's Old Kingdom royalty, or something like it-"

"The girl with the absurd contraptions on her face and messy hair is _royalty_?" The captain was plainly horrified. The idea of royalty as anything other than gracious social betters was, to judge from his face, alien to him.

Sal coloured up again. "Yes. Everybody starts somewhere! And the absurd contraptions on her face are glasses. They help her to see. And they don't stop her fighting!" she added quickly, as she saw the next objection appearing. "Sometimes she'll tape –_don't ask me what tape is_- them to her face so they don't fall off, but most of the time she has this string thing that attaches to the ends so they stay on. You do know this isn't remotely relevant. Oh, _there_ you are!"

That last, said over the heads of the Rangers, inspired them to turn.

Mirayle was hopping ungracefully down the stairs, encumbered by a heavy pack slung on one shoulder and trying to do up the ties of the boot on the opposite foot. True to form, she was cursing, the muttered epithets drifting down the stairs_. "Charter-cursed hedge-hog spawn of a..."_ was the only fragment that reached Sal's ears before Mirayle successfully tied the errant leather ties, shifted her weight onto both feet and took the heft of the pack on both shoulders.

It took only a few seconds for Mirayle to descend the last few steps until she stood before Sal and the Rangers, if not smiling at least not frowning, good spirits restored for the time being by putting what she would probably call 'sensible clothes' on.

Although Sal thought the things her friend was wearing very strange, she was bound to admit that they suited Mirayle much better than Mirayle's school uniform, which was typically scruffy, for want of a better word, and her hair usually tangled and all over the place, if clean. Now, she was wearing armour -that didn't clatter; sometimes it clinked gently, but it didn't seem to clatter- her hair was tied back, the dark blue, silver keys-dotted – surcoat? Sal supposed it must be – clean and at some point ironed, and a helm with a covering of the same material jammed firmly onto her head. She was wearing her treasured swords again and a bandolier – a shiver ran through Sal: the bells! - as well. Sal knew next to nothing about the bells, because, like Free Magic, they were one of those subjects Mirayle would only touch on before shying away, but she knew how much Mirayle treasured those swords, a you're-good-enough-for-these-now present from her uncle who had taught her to use them, much more dangerous than any of the fencing foils that sat unnaturally in the girl's hand.

Mirayle caught Sal's eyes on her and smiled sheepishly, smoothing the surcoat. "It's not mine. It is- it was- Susellen's."

"Why are you wearing it, then?" Sal asked as Mirayle walked towards her.

Mirayle avoided her eyes and fiddled with a small scrap of paper that had come from goodness knew where. "There was a note in the sack."

"What did it say?" Sal demanded curiously.

"It said, 'if the boot fits, wear it'," Mirayle said, a tiny smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. "Very Susellen-ish." She didn't bother to add that it had said 'wear the bells; that way you know exactly where they are' too.

Sal nodded wordlessly, and then managed to say. "Are you going right now?"

Mirayle glanced at the Rangers. "Yes."

"Do you hav-"

"Yes."

These weren't the answers Sal expected. Normally, Mirayle might delay. What spurred her on? _And_, a peevish part of her added, _could she make these stupid footsoldiers listen to reason?_

"But how- oh never mind. I'll go and get the caretaker to drive you-"

A small, self-effacing cough, came from behind her and she spun. "_Yes_?"

It was the Scout. He bowed. _Not at me,_ Sal thought. _Nor that foolish captain. At Mirayle. For Mirayle..._

"Bus to get to the Perimeter passes through Wyverley in a quarter of an hour, ma'am Abhorsen," he said.

Mirayle went more than a little white- quite the feat, considering her pallor. "I'm not Abhorsen nor yet Abhorsen-In-Waiting." Everyone present, except perhaps the Rangers, heard the unspoken _and will not be for many years, Charter willing._

"Ma'am," the Scout corrected himself.

"I'm coming," Mirayle said, and looked hard at Captain Tomas. Sal saw a challenge in her eyes, another of the things she wouldn't expect from Mirayle. _Will you defy me?_ "The only question that remains is if they are too."

The Captain bowed his head slightly. Mirayle might be at least thirty years younger than him, but here she had more power than he did. "We're coming."

Sal watched them go. If the boot fits, wear it...

Sal hadn't known Susellen well. She had been a reasonably distinguished student who lasted out her time at Wyverley College- much less likely to leave an impression on a younger girl's memory than Filris, academically gifted, fond of heckling the speakers who came to give talks to the older girls, prone to seeing things in the swimming pool, and who left two years early. But she did recall Mirayle saying that Susellen was always right.

_If the boot fits, wear it..._


	9. A Bus Ride

**A/N:** Yet another chapter. May, it seems, is not dead.

**Dedication:** Lally, again, without whose reviews this would not exist and who is under a lot of stress. (Business as usual, then.)

**Disclaimer:** Go back to the chapter where LOTR entered this sorry mix, and that's about the size of it. Save for some oddments like Mirayle, nothing is mine.

* * *

It was only a short walk to Wyverley from the school, and they were in fairly good time for the bus. The bus-driver would have made something of a fuss about the Rangers, but the fortuitous combination of a tip and Mirayle's obvious family connections meant that he permitted them onto the bus.

The Rangers in question were displaying varying reactions to the strange world they found themselves in. Mirayle had persuaded them to keep their questions to a discreet level, and hopefully none of them would be motion-sick. A couple of them looked green, but they hadn't been sick yet and there were only three minutes to go...

'Sick' reminded her of her earlier illness. What could it have been caused by? she wondered as she checked her pockets for the umpteenth time, assuring herself that passport and purse were both exactly where she'd left them. Magical disturbance? A stone near the Wall being broken, perhaps? In Ancelstierre her death and magic senses were spread so thin that when she re-entered the Old Kingdom it could be quite a shock, certainly enough to make her queasy, and possibly, if it had been an important stone, and the wind right...

Mirayle felt her idea crumble a little at the foundations, and cussed. Very, very, quietly, but nevertheless the Scout heard. He managed not to give any indication that he'd heard her other than a slight twitching at the corners of his mouth. Mirayle scowled at him, and pulled out her passport, which was a little crumpled.

She examined it absently. Not a bad drawing of her, the thumb-prints neat, all in order. She smoothed the edges, slipped it back into her pocket and stood.

The bus stopped at the usual point and she got off, followed by the Scout and Rangers. "What happens now?" the captain demanded to know.

"I have a message to take, and then we leave this place," Mirayle informed him, "and I hope you don't mind walking. It might start snowing, but not enough to ski on."

The captain eyed her with disfavour. "What are-"

"Shut up," Mirayle said absently, and turned to the Scout. "I have my passport and proofs of identity and all. Where do I go to get over the Wall?"

The Scout thought for a moment. "Well, normally... but... considering the circumstances..." Mirayle waited patiently for him to finish. "...Yes. Yes, I think that's your best bet."

"What's my best bet?" she asked politely.

"General Tindall is. He's back from leave, so he's in a good mood, he understands the Old Kingdom, and he's pretty reasonable anyway."

"Wonderful," Mirayle said only slightly sarcastically. "Now which way do I go?"

"Well," the Scout began. "If you follow that path to the left around the telegraph pole, you get to Passport Control- no, wait, you're royal-"

"Am not," Mirayle replied automatically, used to this particular situation. "Sorry," she added hastily.

The Scout looked at her oddly. "Not a problem. Anyway. Passport Control's not really for the likes of-"

"Passport Control it is," Mirayle said loudly, and headed off in the prescribed direction, only to be forestalled by a bellow of "Wait!"

Mirayle cursed quietly and stopped obediently, pivoting on one foot until she faced the direction of the shout. A young man of average height with carroty that was mostly concealed under a helmet and a private's single stripe was hurrying towards her.

He caught up. "Miss Sayre?" and "Yes," Mirayle only just had time to reply, before the soldier seized her wrist –the Scout winced and the Ranger captain raised his eyebrows- upon which Mirayle dragged her hand out of his, and demanded an explanation, at which the man said there wasn't any time to explain, and Mirayle suggested that he ought to make some, and resisted a second attempt to grab her hand.

She hopped back a few paces. "Now, what is going on?"

"General Tindall-"

Mirayle decided to start from the very beginning. "Where is he?"

"That way, two lefts and a right, fourth dugout on the right-"

"Thank-you. The rush?"

"He's irritated 'cause some messenger's annoying him and he needs to talk to you immediately and incidentally if you've got a small party of armed men without Charter marks around he needs to talk to them as well 'cause some lord sent a telegram which also pissed him off- sorry, _sorry_, saving your presence, miss- and he's really really angry and I don't want to end up doing gravedigging fatigues and could you please go now- miss," he added belatedly.

"How long have you been on the Perimeter?" Mirayle asked, slightly amused.

"A month, miss," he answered, righting his helmet, which was a size too large.

"I see," Mirayle said, not seeing at all why someone hadn't mentioned that important people did cross the Wall every now and again, and then berating herself for setting so much store by being treated as if she were important. Which, she reminded herself, she wasn't really, just a girl who was a little snowed under by unusual events. "Um. Well. Thank you for the directions, Private- er-"

"Gardner, miss," the carroty-haired private supplied, righting his helmet again.

"-Gardner," Mirayle finished. "Right, two lefts, another right, fourth dugout on the... left?"

"Right," the Scout corrected helpfully.

"Thank-you," Mirayle said, and turned to the Rangers. "Follow me."

"Why?" the Captain demanded to know. "What have you done that means we have to obey you?"

Mirayle went thin-lipped and glared at him, good mood vanishing. Several of the Rangers inched slightly away from the captain, trying to disassociate themselves from him.

"Nothing whatsoever," Mirayle snapped. "All it depends on is whether you like your skins whole or not. If the former, follow me. If the _latter_-" and she shrugged expressively. "I suppose then that you can do just as you like. I hope you have a plan, too. I don't, but at least- at least I have somewhere to _go_!"

There was total silence for the fourth or fifth time, in which Mirayle regretted her hasty statement, and the private somehow managed to disappear out of sheer embarrassment, while the Scout attempted to do the same without actually leaving the vicinity.

Mirayle decided that the only way to go was forward. She met the captain's disdainful eyes with as much fire as she could muster, given how much she wished she hadn't indulged in that little piece of spite. "I would say that I'm sorry for that, but I can't because it's _true_ and the day I maul the truth is the day I'm in really serious trouble. I've said it now and I won't take it back." She looked at the other men, hoping that no-one could see her unobtrusively crossed fingers, or, at least, no-one who'd take it against her. "So I'm sorry but I'm not sorry. I'm crossing the Wall as soon as I can and, Charter willing, I will be able to get permission for you to come with me."

She turned on her heel, and paused, turning back. "Right, two lefts, two rights- no, that's wrong-"

"One right," the Scout interrupted, eager to escape the uncomfortable gaze of the outsiders. "Look, why don't I just show you?"

"That would be very helpful," Mirayle said, similarly motivated. "I'm sorry, I'm just not very good at remembering directions when I've got two or more minor crises on my hands. Which reminds me. I have a messenger to find... where is she?"

The Scout resisted saying 'how the hell should I know?' and thought rapidly. "Er. Possibly. Actually, he- wait. Why did you say she?"

"I don't know any Clayr who aren't female," she said, taken aback. "Hence, Daughters of the Clayr."

"Odd," the Scout agreed, wondering if the outsiders ever stopped staring, or if this state of wide-eyed staring was only temporary. "Now, it's this way..."


	10. A Splinter

**A/N:** Omigod... a whole month since I updated. blush I am so sorry.

**Disclaimer:** Mirayle, possibly, is mine. We'll have to see.

* * *

Mirayle very quickly realised two things. Firstly, the simplicity of the directions had been exaggerated; and secondly, it had rained here very recently and the military neatness of the Perimeter –or that portion that the public saw- was something of an illusion. Attention off her feet, she nearly slipped again and grabbed for a support, succeeding in both acquiring a splinter and getting her balance again.

"Blast," she said, adding several more severe cursewords to the end of that in the privacy of her own mind, and examining the splinter as best she could while walking. It was quite a large one, and she could get it out, as soon as –she felt her balance wobble, and barely regained it- she was standing on something that wasn't treacherous mud. Or perhaps –the splinter twinged- she ought to get it out now.

"Are you all right?" the Scout called back, negotiating the mud with enviable ease.

Mirayle gritted her teeth, leant against a post and pulled the splinter out. "Yes." Carefully, she picked her way around especially muddy puddles with slightly more speed than before until she caught up with the Scout, who wasn't really hiding a grin and got a death glare for it. "I realise I sound about six, but are we there yet? And how much has it been raining here? It's bone dry over in Wyverley!"

The Scout cast a glance at the sky as Mirayle squelched closer to where he was standing. "A lot. It comes over from the Old Kingdom and rains heavily for about ten or fifteen minutes and then moves back quickly. Like God realised his clouds were getting out of control." He grinned at Mirayle's sceptical expression. "I keep forgetting Old Kingdom folk don't believe in God."

"The Charter is more than enough to keep us busy, and has the sterling virtue of being real," Mirayle informed him shortly, and looked around. "This close to the Wall, I doubt it's God, and weather-workers are not supposed to play rain-on-the-Scouts'-parade. Hmm. Anyway, where now?"

The Scout indicated a dugout.

"All right. Um. I just... knock, I guess. Ah. Is that right?"

The Scout just shrugged. "It is normal practice."

Mirayle scowled at him. "Normal practice be damned. Last time I met him, I was about six and trussed up in formal clothes." She knocked twice, quickly, and the door swung open. Someone hadn't hung it on its hinges properly.

The general himself looked up from where he was struggling with mountains of paperwork, pulled a cigar from his mouth and saluted. "Abhorsen?"

"Er... no, sir," Mirayle said. "You've got the wrong person. Not far off, though. I'm Mirayle Sayre."

"Mirayle Sayre?" said a polite voice from close to the door, and Mirayle started.

A tall young man perhaps a couple of years older stood in front of her. He'd been sitting on the bench next to the door and he was really taller than anyone had a right to be- Mirayle was aware that she was a beanpole, but he was four or five inches taller than her. He was obviously the Clayr the Scout had mentioned, and he looked slightly familiar. It wasn't anything in the typically dark tan or the blond hair that most Clayr had; more an expression in the guarded blue eyes and the sharp nose. He bowed slightly and brushed his fingers across his Charter mark. It flared. "Levin."

Mirayle smiled the small polite smile she reserved for meeting people and touched her own mark in response. "Pleased to meet you. You would be the messenger?"

Levin returned a similar smile. "Yes."

"Again, wonderful to meet you, and I shall have to ask about that message- oh." Her face fell. For a few precious hours she'd forgotten about it. Now, all the doubt and creeping fear returned. "Is it-" Her voice was much more hesitant than before; General Tindall, listening at the desk, noted it. "Has someone- is someone-"

"No-one is dead," Levin said. "Or likely to become so."

Mirayle smiled her relief. "Excuse me. Could I speak to General Tindall?"

"Yes," General Tindall answered, getting up and saluting again as Levin moved back to his seat on the bench.

Mirayle acknowledged the salute and looked away until she was reasonably certain that the blush on her cheeks had faded. _This isn't right_, a small voice in the back of her head said. _Generals are not supposed to salute schoolgirls. It's all wrong. It's madness. _

Squashing the small voice as best she could, Mirayle began. "There is a problem. We have some... unusual... intruders."

"These would be the armed men without Charter marks?"

"Yes. They appeared at my school and they don't seem to know anything about this place. My great-uncle found out."

There was a pause. "Lord Edward Sayre?" General Tindall said at last, and Mirayle read in his face his dislike for that peer. She nodded slightly and tapped her fingers on the hilt of one of her swords.

"He wants them out of the country in thirty-six hours," she said bluntly, watching for the General's reaction. She saw nothing, just a diplomatic mask. "That means the Old Kingdom. There's nowhere else they can go."

General Tindall stirred. He did look very like his son, Mirayle observed. The eyes especially. "The problem is crossing, of course. Do they have proof of identity of any form?"

Mirayle shook her head. "Nothing, apart from a few tokens. Badges and rings. They're certainly not Ancelstierran in make." She paused. "I haven't had time to try for a truth spell yet and I suspect they wouldn't submit to one either. They think Charter Magic is witchery."

She heard the sounds of restive movement behind her and suspected that Levin had taken exception to the admittedly absurd belief, but continued regardless. "That's why I think they're not Ancelstierrans or people from another country playing trick-the-schoolgirl. They act as if Charter Magic is sincerely repulsive. I suppose it looks that way if you've never seen it before."

There was another pause. "Do you vouch for them?" the general asked. Mirayle met his eyes- it was easier than trying the same with her great-uncle.

Mirayle searched for the words. _They would come to Sal naturally_, she realised, and the insight unspoken left a metallic taste in her mouth. "I- I suppose I do," and she met his eyes again, wondering if he would take her seriously. "There's no-one else to do so. I can't just leave them to..." A phrase obligingly lined up in her mind and she seized it gratefully. "To vanish into the inner workings of bureaucracy."

Tindall nodded. "May I see your passport, please." Mirayle fished it out of her pocket and passed it to him. He looked it over and handed it back. "All in order, Miss Sayre." He touched a Charter mark that had been hidden by silvered hair. Mirayle focused on it with a tiny frown. It hadn't been there when she was six; she remembered that clearly because of what she'd overheard later, a fragment of quiet conversation between Ellimere and Francis. _I'd hoped he'd have adjusted by now. To what? To my being here._ "Sir, when did you get a Charter mark?"

"A few years ago." The answer was guarded.

Mirayle decided not to comment further.

"Well." General Tindall straightened, his tone formal. "I think you can cross. There seems to be no reasonable alternative. But I would like to meet these men."

They left the dugout. Mirayle stayed back for a second, and looked at Levin. "Are you coming?"

Levin nodded assent.

"Then do get a move on. I want to see what latest peccadilloes those people have managed to create."


	11. A Shower

**A/N:** I'm sorry it's taken so long, and I hope I live up to the expectations you lot have of me.

**Dedication:** To Stinger-VRX42 (please tell me I got that right?) for the best review I've ever received. Thanks.

**Disclaimer:** nothing/very little is mine. All hail Garth Nix, creator of this fictional universe.

* * *

As it happened, the Rangers had not got into more trouble, but they were now standing in something approaching a defensive huddle on account of the large number of gawpers who had found the time to spare away from their various duties and were now examining the Rangers. There was, in some of the stares, no small degree of hostility. Mirayle negotiated the muddy puddles and slippy patches with marginally more ease and grace than before, and arrived at the parade-ground she'd left them on with relief at getting to solid ground again.

General Tindall, who had gone first, was standing a polite distance away from the Rangers, conferring quietly with the Scout. Mirayle coughed discreetly, and he looked at her. "Ma'am?"

Mirayle forgot herself and gave him the evil eye for addressing her thus, and then said, indicating the Rangers' leader: "General Tindall, may I present Captain Tomas? Captain Tomas- General Tindall."

Captain Tomas bowed stiffly, and General Tindall saluted in acknowledgment. His face suggested he'd just found someone he disliked even more than Edward Sayre.

Mirayle winced, thinking from the thunderous expression he was wearing that there would shortly be trouble, but the general turned to her and said, in formal tones, "I see no reason not to grant your request, Miss Sayre."

Mirayle nodded her thanks and General Tindall did an abrupt about-face and bellowed orders across the parade-ground, singling out squads and individual soldiers. "_Party to cross_! I want Wickham's squad, gunners, Brown's squad, double vee, _at the double_!"

Mirayle blinked, ears ringing from the force of the shout, and cast about for her things to ensure they were all with her and found her passport missing. She cursed and started going through her pockets, until it was presented to her. "Oh, thanks."

"You're welcome," the messenger said as she slipped the passport into an inside pocket.

"You had a message for me," Mirayle said, reminded. "What was it?"

Levin shrugged. "It was very nebulous, milady-"

"Mirayle," she insisted.

He corrected himself. "Mirayle. All I can tell you is that the rain is spelled, it covers the whole country, and the man responsible for it is a necromancer. We don't know what his name is." Levin hesitated. "And there have been no communications from Belisaere in two weeks."

Mirayle tapped the hilt of one of her swords, frowning. _One-and-two. One-and-two. _"Is this unusual?"

"Very much so," was the answer. "Especially when there should have been a reply to our communication. I'm not often in the Glacier, but even I know it doesn't take more than a day or so for a message taken by an actual live messenger to get there, and, if they start at dawn, back. Oh."

"Oh?..." Mirayle queried, and took the note sealed with blue sealing-wax he handed her.

"From the Voice of the-"

"-Nine Day Watch," Mirayle finished absently, sliding a nail under the seal to break it. "Thanks." She began to read, and then noticed that it was raining.

"Are these the famous five-minute showers?" she inquired of a passing corporal, who saluted hurriedly.

"Yes'm," he said, and hurried on.

Mirayle folded the note up quickly before it could get too wet, and started to make her way towards the nearest shelter, but something stopped her, and she stood stock-still.

What was it? A tingle in the air? A metallic taste, flirting with the rain? A sizzle, barely heard, as the rain touched her Charter mark? A return of the sickness she'd felt earlier?

Mirayle stood, eyes staring at nothing, while the rain fell down around her, making the parade-ground slick and the mud into a glutinous soup, plastering her hair to her face and running down her collar.

General Tindall seized her arm. "Do you realise you're standing in the rain, ma'am? Get under cover before you're soaked!"

"Don't you feel it?" Mirayle said softly. "Don't you feel it?"

The general cast a cursory glance at the sky. "Of course I do. It's rain."

Mirayle shook her head impatiently. "No. Different. There's a difference, the rain brings it, it's coming from the Old Kingdom..." She turned to face him. "Can't you taste metal on the back of your throat? Can't you feel a difference?"

General Tindall looked uncertain for a moment. "There's something, perhaps. But get under shelter."

Mirayle obeyed mechanically, wondering what exactly was going on, and then unfolded the note and began to read.

_Dear Mirayle,_

_You will, very likely, be extremely angry with us for not informing you of what we have known for months past: of Susellen's abandonment of the bells. We expected it- it is very unusual, perhaps unprecendented, to See so _very_ far south and we had previously believed it beyond our powers. We saw but snippets at first, but they added up to a whole that we disliked, but found ourselves compelled to accept, as you will be- have been- are._

Mirayle found herself recalling a family saying about the Clayr confusing their whens, and read on.

_You can wield the bells. You can read the Book of the Dead. You can face the necromancer. You can do all of this. So we have Seen and so it must be. _

"No pressure, then," she murmured, and read on. For some reason, she didn't feel surprised: or perhaps she'd already had so many surprises that the shock had worn off.

_You can trust the messenger who carries this. It may seem to you that this should go without saying- but we have lived in times more dangerous than you have ever known, when Kerrigor still held the Kingdom helpless, and we understand the need as you shall. Charter be with you._

_In sincerity,_

_The Voice Of The Nine Day Watch. _

And below, almost as if it was an afterthought-

_Sanar. Ryelle._

Mirayle folded it, deep in thought, and found a pocket that wasn't stuffed with things like home-made toffee, dried fruit, a compass, a sketch map, or any of a dozen other useful items to put it in.

"The rain has stopped," a voice quite close to her ear informed her, and she jumped and spun to glare at Levin, who managed a perfect poker face.

"Don't do that!"

A half-bow was her answer, and Mirayle stamped towards the general, who was preparing a crossing guard, temper much worsened.

* * *

A little later, a signal officer watched Mirayle leave Ancelstierre, and returned to his post a little earlier than was strictly necessary.

He had a telegram to send.

* * *

Still later, a butler knocked respectfully at a study door, and entered upon the answer "Come in." He put a telegram, thin paper on the gleaming silver tray, onto the study desk, and glided out, closing the door behind him.

Once the door had clicked shut, and the footsteps had faded, Edward Sayre picked up the telegram and opened it. It consisted of four words in the cryptic telegraphese:

MS IN OK STOP

Although some might have guessed that 'OK' meant Old Kingdom, fewer would have worked out that 'MS' stood for Mirayle Sayre.

Edward Sayre smiled.


	12. A Journey

**A/N:** And the next chapter: a bit short, but never mind.

**Disclaimer:** Nothing, or at least very little, is mine. The setting was created by Garth Nix, the idea of the Rangers by J.R.R. Tolkien.

* * *

Susellen knew her great-uncle.

She thought she knew him very well.

But she wouldn't have thought that he would have sent her sister across the Wall, into uncertain danger. "You did not," she said, slipping into a Society voice, hitting every consonant and sounding rather like her cousin Ellimere. "You... did... _not_."

"I did," Edward Sayre corrected mildly.

Susellen glared at him, putting every ounce of elder-sister love and family loyalty that she had into thirty slitty-eyed unblinking seconds of hatred. "Correct me if I happen to stray from the truth. I am to understand that you sent my sister... who is sixteen... over the Wall, into danger. I have not had a communication from my parents in four weeks, which is exceedingly unusual. There have been no communications between the Royal Guard and the Scout-"

"Northern Perime-"

"Scouts," Susellen repeated, fixing him with another glare. "Also exceedingly unusual, and a circumstance that points to trouble in the Old Kingdom. Now. The Old Kingdom being what it is- and I should know –trouble there is invariably of a serious variety or it doesn't happen at all. And you sent my little sister- your great-niece, if you recall –into this murky soup of likely danger?"

There was a few moments' quiet, and then: "Yes, I did."

Susellen began to speak, but was cut off.

"Sixteen is young, but your sister is... I believe the phrase among the younger generation is 'a tough cookie'. She is unlikely to give up; she has a certain, ah, _je ne sais quoi_-" Edward snapped his fingers idly at the air- "a something, you know, that encourages me to believe that she is capable of dealing with the crisis one puts in front of her. You know, you should have more faith in her- didn't you leave her those bells of yours?" Susellen flushed bright at his words, and he continued. "You have yet to tell me anything about them, you k-"

Susellen seized the telegram from his fingers and ripped it- once – twice –three times – four, throwing the pieces back at him. They drifted in the air, forlorn ragged-edged slips of paper. "That was different! I knew! I knew! It was- it was the right thing to do!"

She turned and dashed for the door, pulling it open, and then turned again, face streaming with tears that he would have thought that she could conquer, and shouted: "And I'll never tell you everything you want to know about my home, because not all of it's meant for soft _southerners_!"

She ran, slamming the door behind her, pushing past servants and relatives, some of whom put out feeble hands to stop her, but she shoved past, fury running in her veins and thumping in time with her pulse and her harsh breathing, tear-choked.

Eventually she reached the room that had been assigned to her for a bedroom, and she flung herself on the bed and cried and cried, for a home and a family and a place and the knowledge that she had and didn't want and didn't understand how she had anyway, and a little sister she had- a little sister who was walking blithely into what even sensible Susellen might term 'peril'- an unknown quantity, a cold whisper on the wind, a second's nausea.

But even as she stopped crying, she knew she'd done the right thing- she just wished it hadn't led to this.

* * *

Susellen, however right she may have been about other factors, such as Mirayle's lack of experience, was wrong about at least one thing: the younger girl was not walking blithely into a possibly dangerous situation. 

If the older girl, her senses spread thin from the weeks in Corvere, had felt a murmur in the air, a coldness in the back of the throat, then Mirayle felt it all around her now. The clouds overhead didn't seem the annoyance they had been last time she'd visited- they were more menacing, in a way she didn't understand and couldn't pin down. Her Charter mark tingled on her forehead. She felt a creeping coldness on her skin, a sense of something at the corners of her eyes that she was missing.

Then someone asked the inevitable question. "Where are we going?"

It was, of course, the Captain, his question in as cold a tone as possible. Mirayle sighed, slipped her pack off her shoulders and pulled her map out. "Firstly, we're going to the Barhedrin Royal Guard post. They'll have messenger hawks there, and the news from Belisaere. Good or bad," she added with a sidelong glance at Levin, noting that he seemed as uncomfortable as she was. "Next," she continued loudly, something niggling at a corner of her mind, "we'll go to Abhorsen's House. My home," Mirayle added happily, and then as an afterthought, "safe. As houses. Not even you lot could get into trouble there, if you know where not to go and what not to do."

She looked up sharply, the thing niggling at the corner of her mind catching her attention: a coldness, a wrongness, close- now here, now there, now it was gone, no, back. She glanced around, eyes dark and sharp. "What is that?"

A chorus of shrugs and muttered 'I don't knows' followed her words, until Levin cut across them. "I don't know. It's been around all the way down from the Glacier, and I don't like it. I've never felt anything like it. I suggest we move on, now." His voice was quick and authoritative, and Mirayel realised that that sentence was the most words she'd heard from him. She appreciated that, knowing thinking before speaking was not always something she did.

"Yes," Mirayle agreed wholeheartedly, stuffed the map back into the pack again, and began walking, her pace more rapid than was sensible.

They had crested the slow uphill tilt of the road and were going downhill at a smart pace some twenty or thirty minutes later when the clouds fulfilled their dark promise and began raining heavily.

It says something for the urgency Levin's words had inspired in her that Mirayle's pace did not slow, despite the sheeting rain drenching her hair and running down her collar. Some instinct was moving her onwards, and she was happy to let the instinct take control. It seemed to know what it was doing, unlike her conscious mind, and just at this moment Mirayle would give anything to know what she was doing.


	13. A Fight

**A/N:** The next chapter- sorry it's so late. I'm not good at fightscenes, even short ones, did I screw this one up? Scratch that, did I screw the whole _chapter_ up? I'd like to know...

**Disclaimer:** Look, I've said this before. I. Am. Not. Garth. Nix! _Or_ J.R.R. Tolkien!

* * *

The teenager halted before turning a corner, the same instinct that had got her this far warning her, although she could have done without the sharp pains in the muscles in the backs of her knees that informed her that she could have done with stretching before trying to walk so far. She half-drew her left-hand sword, keeping a steady grip on it, and formed a Charter-spell in the other.

And then she looked round the corner.

She had intended just to take a quick look and whisk her head back round the corner again, in case of danger, but, shocked by what she saw, she stared uncomprehendingly while the Charter-spell slowly dripped between her fingers.

The Barhedrin Hill Royal Guards' post was protected by a high, thick wall with arrow slits in, which curved horseshoe-like around the actual buildings. Mirayle, the Rangers and Levin had been able to see this previously, but in order to get around the horseshoe wall they had to go the long way round.

It so happened that the wall in question was of recent construction, and very sturdy, and so the Dead Hands –_strong ones_, she thought as she unfroze and drew her head back- had not been able to wreak havoc and destruction on it. However, the other buildings were not so strong, and had been almost destroyed. She guessed that the Charter stone nearby must have been broken too, and noted that here it wasn't raining.

Mirayle realised that the entirety of the guard post must be dead. She knew that reinforcements always travelled down at this time of year, because the lengthening nights provided any Dead or necromancer with more time and scope to kill, maim and desecrate, but that they wouldn't be here yet. She retreated, and motioned to the others to do so as well.

"What is it?" the Ranger captain demanded in a voice that should not carry to any, Dead or still living, in the ruined guard post.

"The necromancer has set the Dead to destroy the guard post." Mirayle didn't want to think about how large the host of Hands and Shadow Hands that would be needed to do so must be, although some had to be gone.

"Should we attempt to free the garrison?"

The question was still quiet. It seemed as if they'd had to do this, or something like it, before: she pushed that thought away and concentrated on the ruined post. The first dead body she felt with what Susellen used to call 'Death sense', excluding the Hands, she had known; a lieutenant. The lieutenant's name might have been Lilian, but she could be mixing her up with a different guard of a similar height and build.

She swept over the post's buildings three times, trying to find someone alive, convinced that her inexperience was playing a part in the fact that she couldn't, but eventually she admitted defeat.

She blinked, and focused on the others with her. "No. There is no-one to free." She thought for a moment.

"The walking dead?" a Ranger asked. "Do we banish them?"

She raised her eyebrows. "How? I've never even opened the covers of the Book of the Dead and there must be ten or fifteen Hands there- at least, visible. Any necromancer could raise more with all the bodies out there at a few minutes' notice. We're going to have to- hold the telephone. You didn't- go and look? Oh, you did. Oh-" She used a word that she had, aged twelve, sworn to her father she would never, _ever_ use. Especially not in her mother's presence. "Right. Let's hope they were too busy to notice you. We have to go, now, before-"

A rattling gargle interrupted her, and she span, drawing her half-drawn sword and summoning another Charter-spell. Her brain worked furiously in calculations she'd never had to make before and found itself good at them. _Four Hands, confined space, possibly more Hands, one effective ally, ten or so to be watched after, myself inexperienced: oh, Charter help me_- and she bowled the spell right into the foremost Hand's wide-open, rotting mouth, with the interesting effect that golden fire started to immolate it.

Mirayle didn't have time to consider the fascinating spectacle; she cut the half of the Dead thing that hadn't yet been turned to ash and grave dirt into half and half again, ducked another Hand's grasp, bisected that one too, cut off its head, arms and legs, and found herself with nothing in front of her-

_remember, her uncle had said, if they're not in front of you it's usually because_

-"_'Ware!_" someone shouted, a voice she didn't quite know, changed by volume, and had no time to analyse-

_they're behind you, he had said, and neatly disarmed her. Now, I could have killed you then if I was an enemy, he said- so remember_

- and she remembered and jumped aside, and the Dead thing overbalanced, arms flailing and losing pieces of flesh, so she turned, decapitated it, cut its arms off and its body into three as Charter-spells flamed over her shoulder and caught light on the dissected Dead Hands, and she saw that Levin had dealt with the last remaining one, and she shouted "_Run_!"

so they did.

* * *

Eventually, they reached a small stream, and waded across it. Mirayle looked around; as they had run away from the guard post the rain had thickened. "All right. We can stop now, for a while."

There was a few moments' silence while she rooted in her pack for some dried fruit and caught her breath, still thinking about the warning voice. "Ah, found it. Why on earth did I pack that at the bottom?" she asked no-one in particular, and opened the packet, took a dried apricot for herself, and offered them around.

After the packet had circulated and returned to Mirayle, who stuffed it back into the pack, she said: "We ought to start again now. I didn't count on the Barhedrin Guard post being... well, let's just say we might be followed, or meet something even more unpleasant than the Dead Hands. Abhorsen's House isn't far from here; we need to get to-" She gestured vaguely in the right direction and produced a map from a pocket, handing it to the Ranger captain. "It's marked."

The Rangers, who not unnaturally wanted to know where exactly they were and hadn't had a chance to get a look at a map, clustered around it, quite effectively distracted.

It took them just long enough to realise Mirayle had handed them the wrong map for her to whisper 'thanks for warning me' to Levin without being noticed.


	14. A House

**A/N:** Again, sorry it's been so long in coming- I was on holiday. **_Reviews_** would be nice... (she says, hopefully.)

**Disclaimer:** If you have a burning wish to read a disclaimer, please refer to previous chapters. Ah, the dreaded scourge of fanfic authors everywhere... _writing out disclaimers_.

* * *

Mirayle stood facing the cliff-face, which seemed empty and bleak in the constant rain, which was blurring her sight as it ran in rivulets down the lenses of her glasses and down her cheeks, like tears that weren't salty. She'd been dreading this bit- she guessed that Levin knew of only one way to open the door to Abhorsen's House and would expect her to be able to wield Mosrael accordingly. As- Mirayle fished for the correct title and gave up –given her status as Susellen's -she baulked at the word 'replacement', but it would have to do- replacement, she should be able to do it, and for some sneaking reason she wanted to measure up to what she ought to be to the Old Kingdom. What she was didn't seem good enough.

Distractingly, the Rangers had already picked up on her hesitation and were loudly enquiring as to what she planned to do next. Some were gazing apprehensively down the path, now totally concealed by the darkness; only Charter lights cast by Mirayle and Levin (his were stronger, and she suspected he was more used to long walks) had saved them from getting hopelessly lost. She shook her head, wanting their voices silenced so she could try and clear her mind, knowing the Charter marks she needed wouldn't come easily. "Please be quiet, she said wearily and wondered if she was wearing a beltknife- the answer to which, of course, was 'no'. Instead, she half-drew her right-hand sword, trying to get the right grip on it, and the Rangers fell silent.

"What's she doing?" she heard one of them say nervously to Levin, and she also his muttered answer "I don't know."

Mirayle closed her eyes, thought as hard as she could of something else, and allowed her hand to close as lightly as possible on the blade of her sword. Mutters of unease greeted her as she opened her eyes with a wince, sheathed the sword and carefully wiped some of the blood from the thin cut across her palm onto the rock.

She turned slightly and glared, putting a finger to her lips for silence. The she turned back to the cliff face, stepped closer to it, and whispered something that none of the Rangers could hear, but that might have been to Levin's sharp hearing '_I am Mirayle, Lirael's daughter_.'

A ghostly pale, bluish-white hand composed of Charter marks emerged from the rock, causing startled cries, but Mirayle did nothing to quieten them as the hand reached towards her forehead and touched her Charter mark. This time, only she heard the almost inaudible greeting. _Welcome, daughter_. She smiled, and mused that if her parents were at home it would make her job so much simpler.

Although the door had appeared in the rock, and after a couple of experiments she had remembered that it was a push door not a pull door, a number of the Rangers still looked unwilling to enter. "Oh, for God's sake," she said crossly, slipping into an Ancelstierre expression by mistake. "Do you want to spend the night out there? I can't believe you're frightened of a door, and you haven't even seen Abhorsen's Bridge yet!"

"What's Abhorsen's Bridge?"

"Well, you get to find out soon, don't you? So hurry up and shut the door behind you." She began to walk up the passage, not bothering to look back and see if they were following her, which they were- slowly.

She reached the portcullis guardian, nodded politely, and passed him-her-it, moving along to the stepping stones. Mirayle looked at her cut and briefly considered activating the stone bridge that lay beneath the rushing water before the Rangers got to her, the bridge being a two-foot-wide pathway with railings dating from a few months before Susellen was born, when Nicholas Sayre decided that he wasn't letting his pregnant wife hop from stone to stone so precariously, but eventually settled for watching for the looks on their faces as they spotted the stepping stones.

Suffice to say that those looks of horror lived up to Mirayle's expectations, despite the fact that Levin spoilt it by giving her a look of reproach from the top of the path that said, much louder than any words, _Stop it. It's not fair._

Chastened, she knelt and wiped some more of her blood from the cut she'd incurred earlier onto a particular part of the stone near the hidden bridge. As it rose slowly, she explained to no-one in particular "Mother can do it with the bells. I don't know how..."

She waited patiently until it locked in place with a grinding noise and then crossed it carefully, mindful of the slipperyness of the bridge and gripping one of the rails tightly. Once on the other side she walked up to the door, pulled her keys out of one of the pockets of her pack and unlocked the door, pushing it open. "Abhorsen's House. Home," she said aloud, and looked around for Mogget. It was not likely that he was here –she was aware that Mogget spent a good deal more time at Wallmaker House, in the Ratterlin river delta- but she had hoped that he might be. Her father often described him as 'cryptic, but helpful' and helpfulness, cryptic or otherwise, she could do with.

There was something wrong.

Mirayle couldn't pin it down, but there was. Abhorsen's House was empty- as empty as it ever was, given the sendings' presence –but even they were hardly advertising their presence as they usually did to her, knowing her for the Abhorsen's niece and Abhorsen-in-Waiting's daughter. Perhaps they were wary of the Rangers- if so, she didn't blame them.

Someone coughed discreetly. She was holding the door open when everyone had filed through- she shut it quickly, and walked quickly up the garden path, noting that although the trees and bushes had been pruned, the grass cut and the flowerbeds weeded, none of the garden tools had been left out as they would have been if her mother had done anything. There were no books left casually on windowsills, and the door to the house was not locked.

There could be any number of explanations for that, though. Lirael could be visiting family, and Nick with Sam- it would be just like her father to forget to lock the inner door. Mirayle squashed the other explanations as she allowed a sending to remove her pack and take her swords and the bells- she would not have trusted a human servant with such things, but there it was –while the Rangers stared around them.

Mirayle recognised the cream-robed sending who stood in front of her now, and her heart sank. "No. I don't want a bath just yet," she told it as firmly as she could. "I can run one for myself when I need it anyway."

Crossing her fingers that she would get away with it, she ran upstairs to her bedroom, divested herself of armour, boots and surcoat, put on house shoes instead and started to search her own home.

She checked her parents' bedroom first, trying the door cautiously before pushing it gently open. It was unoccupied, and had been neatly made. None of the lamps were lit, or had been at Mirayle's guess for the past week at least. That was strange, but could still be accounted for by the theory she was clinging to like a piece of driftwood in a stormy sea. Susellen's room, of course, was clean, tidy and naturally empty. Filris's, in her opinion, had had an occupant more recently than Susellen's or Mirayle's but less recently than her parents'. So Filris had visited? Not unusual.

The study, which the sendings did not frequent except to clean, was as normal too, although her father's notes and her mother's journal, ordinarily stacked together with the fountain pens they used close by, were missing, as were the pens. A map of the Old Kingdom was spread open and weighted on the desk with the dragon-legs (Susellen had been frightened of those, and Filris had told scary stories to petrify her when they were all a lot younger, Mirayle remembered). Mirayle recognised it as one of the carefully-drawn copies her mother and father used to record Dead, Free Magic, and Charter Stones broken or raised for each year; she could easily tell the difference between her mother's textbook-like, perfect handwriting and her father's scrawl in the dates written in tiny numbers and letters beside each symbol. After a quick examination of the parchment- which was this year's map –she could see that the most recent date was the nineteenth- ten days ago.

She sighed, collapsed into one of the armchairs in the study and started up again as she realised she'd sat on something rectangular and smooth. It was a book on weatherworking, one page dogeared (_definitely Dad's work_, she thought with a smile). Mirayle opened it to the marked page, smoothing the corner out, and saw that it was on large-scale weatherworking, not something that fascinated her; it entailed a lot of working with other mages, interweaving a lot of different spells.

Something tried to present itself to her furiously working mind, which did not have time for it. She was more interested in her parents' whereabouts –_they_ might know what to do about these strange Ranger people who wore swords, and acted like Old Kingdom nationals, but had no Charter mark- than whatever a chapter heading on what she considered dull and time-consuming spellwork might have triggered in her memory.

Mirayle looked at the book again. Whatever it had reminded her of so distractingly was gone now, but she'd come back to it again later, reasoning that she couldn't afford to make a mistake, and it might have been important.

_Prudence_, Mirayle thought privately, was always mother's forte. _She never puts a foot wrong, and that's something I could do with copying right now_. She inserted a hair-ribbon from a nearby coffeetable- probably one of Susellen's, appropriated for the purposes of bookmarking –into the book, got up, put it on the table, and left to deal with her life.


	15. A Dinner

**A/N:** And another chapter. :p Late, but I take Ancient Greek now, and I've started GCSE courses for real (inserted groans, moans, piles of homework and assorted complaints here)... too tired to write in the evenings, most of the time... Please do read and review. (Shuddup. I didn't mean that to rhyme.)

**Disclaimer:** Oh, dear God. _Please_. I. Can. Not. Be. Bothered. To. Type. These. Things. Fourteen. Times. OVER. Oh, the brain hurt. Please refer to previous chapters.

**_ETA: Improvements made, should not put these things out so fast (well, comparatively.) Thanks for the heads-up, Stinger. :)_**

* * *

Mirayle climbed the stairs to her room, bolted the door firmly and cranked the wheel for hot water, starting to peel off the rest of her rather sweaty and too-warm clothes.

The Charter lamps had already been lit by the sendings, and from the clean dress and underdress laid out, along with comb, soap and a large fluffy towel, one of them had come up to her room. Dinner would probably be in about half an hour, Mirayle guessed, looking at the sky outside.

Once she was scrubbed clean and her hair washed, she dressed and tried to comb her hair- an operation fraught with difficulties and curses as the comb stuck in the tangles, losing two teeth in the process. That accomplished, she unbolted the door and trotted downstairs, trying not to trip over the hem of the long blue overdress, unaware that she was smiling slightly, the change of clothes, hot bath and return home to the warmth of the Charter-infused house having made her feel much better. Since there hadn't been any shouts of protest- not that she'd heard, anyway –she presumed the bath-tyrant sending, who had terrorised the past three generations of Abhorsens and their families, had left the Rangers well alone.

Mirayle recalled with a slight twinge of guilt that she'd forgotten to explain plumbing as pertaining to Abhorsen's House to the Rangers, but someone appeared to have mended her deficiency and directed them towards the guest bedroom they could take turns to wash in- at least, they all looked a lot cleaner than they had previously. So did Levin; she imagined he understood at least some of the intricacies of the hot-water system, given its similarity to that at the Glacier.

Now, they were all present, correct and silent in the hall of Abhorsen's House. She raised her eyebrows at them when no-one spoke. "The dining-room is this way, and dinner is served- according to the sendings."

Still, no-one spoke. So she led the way into the room, running her fingers along the gleaming wooden backs of the chairs as she walked to her place- second down on the left, next to where Nicholas would sit if he was there. She sat down, let Levin take the place next to her- and then realised that the Rangers were not taking seats. "You can sit down," she said, puzzled, and then noticed that Captain Tomas was staring at her.

"Why aren't you sitting at the head?" he asked, and for once it was a simple question, not a demand.

"That's where my mother sits," she said stiffly, embarrassed that anyone had to ask –it had always seemed fairly obvious, but then, when they received visitors they were usually Clayr or Prince Sameth or Princess Ellimere's family and understood without asking- and painfully reminded that Susellen was probably never going to fill that right-hand seat ever again. "At her left hand, my father, at her right, Susellen. Next to Susellen, Filris; next to my father, me. Oh, just pick a place," she added, when they still looked reluctant, and then struck up a distinctly one-sided conversation with Levin (who looked _much_ too amused by her actions for her personal comfort.)

Eventually, everyone was seated, and Mirayle was still trying to carry a conversation when the first course arrived, but while everyone was eating with extreme good manners -the spectre of her fearsome Ettiquette teacher hovering over Mirayle as she remembered her failures in that lesson- it somehow died, and she was too tired to resurrect it.

The sendings hadn't served any wine; she knew that her mother had forbidden them to allow Mirayle or Filris to touch alcohol until eighteen after Filris' ill-fated experiment aged fifteen with some brandy left on a table, which had made Filris swear off alcohol for life. She didn't want it, either; she had heard Filris being sick afterwards and decided that drinking wasn't worth it. She wondered if this was considered unusual by the Rangers, or if something else was upsetting them, because they looked unsettled, and were indulging in very quiet conversations two or three places down the long table. Then again, they'd looked unsettled for at least the past six hours.

"Culture shock," Levin muttered out of the side of his mouth, and only the imaginary spectre of Miss Beech, ruler in hand, that Mirayle had raised for herself kept her from leaping upwards in her seat. She constrained herself to a sideways look that spoke volumes.

It said: _will you stop reading my mind, now, please, because you're going to drive me mad soon_!

He grinned imperviously back at her. She scowled, and returned determinedly to her meal.

After dinner, she went to the study, where she had left the Book of the Dead in its glass case. Mirayle removed it, and laid it on the dragon desk.

For a few moments, she stood there, one hand gripping the back of the chair, staring down at this book that was going to change her life in a few seconds, by her choice. And that was what rankled: the whole issue of choice.

_You don't have to do it_, a small and persuasive voice whispered to her. _Oh, but you needn't... Go south, child. This is not your battle to fight... live and learn, leave the book where it is... someone else will do it, you're much too young... Mirayle remained rooted to the floor, still looking at the book, but not seeing it. _

"I must," she said aloud and firmly to drown it out. "I have to."

She dragged the chair back, sat down, moved closer to the desk and flipped the book open, teeth gritted, and began to read, memorising as best she could. The book seemed to match her grim mood and lack knowledge, giving her the bare basics plainly stated without softening any of the disgusting details, although she didn't shrink from such descriptions as Susellen might have done. Parts were not easy to understand, and she read them over and over again until she understood them. It was tiring, and even with the soft radiance of the Charter lights illuminating the page, she could tell she was going to have a headache from staring at the black letterpress print and the engravings that were the illustrations, taking it all in.

Mirayle, who had a habit of skim-reading everything, had difficulty keeping herself concentrating on the page. Her glasses, which had fingerprints and smears all over them, kept coming down her nose and neatly bisecting the page into large, easy-to-read print and incomprehensibly tiny letters it made her eys hurt to look at. A hundred distractions besieged her; a sending appeared with tea, which it left on a coffee table, near a book on weatherworking. It remained in the room a scant five minutes, tidying and sorting and giving Mirayle and the book she was afraid to touch a very wide berth.

While it was there, and for some time afterwards, Mirayle was unable to focus. She kept wondering what force had driven her here, what had made her take the precaution of tying her glasses to her face before leaving Wyverley College, what she'd felt in those moments standing in the mud-slick of the Perimeter –the metallic taste came back, and she choked at the feel of Free Magic; but why would Free Magic be there at the Wall?- why Susellen had chosen Ancelstierre, why she hadn't noticed Sal's turn for words.

Sure, she'd been a very noisy little girl who tried to dominate conversations, competing with her delicate eldest sister and rowdy middle sister for attention and favours, and she'd been very much occupied with the national examinations she'd taken at the end of last year, but how hadn't she seen such a thing develop in the girl who was, after all, supposed to be her best friend?

Over the past year, she did _not_ realise, visiting Filris and her Royal and Wallmaker cousins, she'd turned more and more towards the Old Kingdom. She didn't guess, and never would, that she spoke of the Old Kingdom with more homesickness and wistfulness than she had since she was seven or eight. Didn't guess that, telling Sal about a world Sal would never visit, pausing for brief but unknowingly patronising explanations of such things, she was in the process of estranging herself from her best friend.

For instance, Sam had made Mirayle new glasses the previous summer. She could see better, they suited her face better, and they had a no-smudge charm on (which, of course, she forgot to renew almost instantly) and she'd rhapsodised about them on her return to school and Sal, stopping to show Sal some of the easiest marks, marks that the other girl already knew, irritating her.

Sal, meanwhile, had spent a summer being her parents' dutiful daughter, and sneaking into her room under the guise of homework to practise drawing Charter marks, thinking of how Mirayle would spend her time and envying her. It had been all very well when they were younger, for Mirayle to teach Sal how to make shadows dance with a few simple marks and for Sal to explain the plots of classic films to Mirayle, but as they'd grown up there was less to teach, and less to say. Sal had done her level best to learn as much as possible about Mirayle's home, and Mirayle had absorbed the presence of films, electricity and aeroplane mechanics like a sponge, but neither quite understood the other's level of knowledge, and Sal had started to grow impatient with her friend. It was harder when Mirayle was gone and she was sitting with Lucy Smith in Chemistry to recall Mirayle with any great fondness.

In fact, as Sal was sitting in that very same lesson, the last lesson of the day, Mirayle was trying to fix passages from the Book of the Dead in her memory. Sal was drawing on the corner of her Chemistry notes while the teacher explained the difference between atomic mass and relative atomic mass, and Mirayle was staring uncomprehendingly at a particularly disgusting and confusing illustration. Sal was thinking that it had been unkind of Mirayle not to explain the worries that had been so plain on her face further to her best friend, who was surely her only Ancelstierran confidante, unkind of Mirayle not to tell her the full truth about Free Magic and the Dead; someone had gently suggested to her that morning that perhaps Mirayle liked to cultivate an air of mystery, and although at the time Sal had been shocked it was making more sense as she turned it over in her mind. Mirayle was not thinking of Sal at all.

Had this been pointed out to her, Mirayle would not have considered the matter at all as she fidgeted with the cuff of her sleeve and a nearby quill and turned the page, repeating the cold, dispassionate-toned words of the text to herself as she attempted to commit them to memory, still thinking that she should not need to do this alone as the hours ticked by and her tea grew colder.

But if she had not been so desperately occupied with her work, she might have thought that there had once been a time when Sal would have followed her into that visitors' room to hear the messages, what would have seemed to Mirayle if she'd spared it a thought months ago.

She might have wondered where that time had got to, and after a while she might have realised that she was part of the problem. But since that would have distracted her- probably fatally -from the gruesome reality of this madcap escapade and the logistics and diplomacy required in looking after the Rangers and herself, it could have been said that it was best for her that she didn't.

It could have been said.

While thoughts that never quite reached an understanding of the changes that had been taking place even before she knew of Susellen's desertion, revolved round a restless brain, Mirayle caught herself staring, out of focus, at a bright Charter lamp. Swearing quietly to herself for her lack of ability to pay attention, she looked again at the book and found the sentence she had been reading rendered illegible by a smear on her glasses, She pulled the offending articles off with a curse, scrubbed at them with her sleeve- spreading the smear around –and shoved them back onto her face again. Bad-temperedly, she directed her attention once more to the Book of the Dead, and, for some reason, felt that it mocked her.

Four hours later, after the Rangers had constructed some tents and accepted sleeping rolls the sendings had discovered somewhere in the labrynthine cellars, Mirayle slammed the book shut and locked it in its glass case, having read a solid half of it, although she didn't want to have to rely on her doubtful memorisation.

As she climbed the stairs to her room, Mirayle acquired a faint suspicion based on the light she saw glowing under the door of the room Levin had been assigned that he'd waited up, to check she hadn't lost her mind to the book. She had told him that she was going to read it, after all. There was still something vaguely unflattering about it.

She pushed open the door to her room, exhausted, head throbbing and too tired to fix it with a Charter spell. She fell asleep, fully dressed and glasses left carelessly on her chest of drawers, to nightmares peopled by armies of the Dead and her own incompetency.


	16. A Nightmare

**A/N:** Oh Em Gee, it's long. More than two thousand words, no... less... ?...

There was something wrong with that phrase...

Anyway, I hope it's okay, especially that the changes of scene don't make it too choppy or confused. :) Please read and review.

**Disclaimer:** Oh, sigh. Go back. Read the many and multiple disclaimers that tell you that I merely gamboll and wreak havoc in these fictional worlds, and create very little of them.

* * *

"Wake up! Wake _up_!" 

The sleeping figure tossed and turned on the edge of the bed as others hammered on her bolted door, finally overbalancing and landing with a thump and a gasp on the floor as her eyes flew wide open.

"All right. I'm awake. I'm awake. Stop trying to break down my door!" Mirayle grumbled. Instantly, the hammering stopped.

She tried to disentangle herself from the sheets that had wound themselves tightly around her during one of her vivid, and thankfully rare, nightmares, her vision hampered by the fact she wasn't wearing her glasses.

Eventually, Mirayle succeeded in freeing herself from the bedclothes, stood up, and crossed her room haphazardly, stubbing her toes, tripping and cursing. She reached the chest of drawers she'd left her glasses on, felt about for them and stuffed them onto her face.

Able to see again, she slid the bolt back and opened the door a crack, glaring out. The Rangers stood around her door; Levin appeared to have been the one trying to break her door down. "What's the matter with you?" she said crossly.

"You were screaming," Levin answered simply, and stepped back.

"It was just a nightmare."

"No," Levin said, his eyes trained on her face, "I don't think you understand-"

"What is there to understand?" she snapped. "I merely have very vivid dreams-"

"-you screamed so loud, you woke _everyone_ up."

Mirayle stared at him, uncomprehending. "I-" She pushed past him, and through the circle of Rangers, to see the silhouettes of the sendings, silent and judgemental. _Even Mother- I don't remember even Mother having such nightmares... nor Susellen, when she first read the book, and they certainly screamed. Susellen used to tear up her room at first, I know..._

"Yes." The single word came from Captain Tomas. "A dreaming child leads us, clearly." The sentence was cold, and Mirayle turned on him, eyes flashing, but before she could speak Levin interrupted.

"_Nobody_ leads me. I merely follow as I choose, and now that this is settled, I suggest sleep would be best for all of us." The circle of Rangers parted to let him leave, and shortly afterwards Mirayle heard a door shut.

She stood there in silence, still glaring at Captain Tomas. "If words are all you can defy me with, then why don't you just shut up? You do no-one any favours by saying such things and you- you know it!" The first few Rangers started to trickle away from the group. The expression on their faces could possibly have been described as a mixture of sleepiness, general irritation at the peculiar hour, and faint traces of embarrassment and fear, but only if you made a real habit of underestimation.

Captain Tomas folded his arms and looked down his nose at her from a height advantage of approximately two inches. "I tell the truth, and only the truth."

"Then maybe it's time you got the hang of lies!" she almost shouted, clenching her fists so that her nails left sharp half-moons in the palms and feeling a serious urge to take her anger out on this glacial fool. "There are nightmares, and there are nightmares! I don't dream of _things under my bed_." She managed to put so much venom into the phrase 'things under my bed' that another few Rangers trailed off. "I dream of the things that go kill in the night! I've got the family dreams. The family malaise, the night-horrors that got passed from my mother to my sister and now to me! Are you surprised I scream when I'm walking with the living dead in my dreams? You had better not be, and you had better believe in them-" conveniently forgetting the captain had seen the Hands earlier- "because whether you believe in them or not, they'll kill you! And their master isn't one to care for you or I- he'll bring you back, he'll walk you up the grey river and he'll turn you into what doesn't bear speaking of..." her voice trailed off, giving the lie to any brave facade she might have put up if she hadn't just screamed the House into wakefulness at this particular unholy hour of the night. The last lingering Rangers vanished into the blackness of the garden.

He just gave her another cold look, making her want to stick her tongue out at him almost as much as she had previously wanted to smash his face in. Perhaps the truth of her words and the fright in her voice had made some impression on him- although whether he just thought she was a very silly child now, or a not-irredeemable one remained to be seen, because he said: "I see. I hope your courage does not fail you."

There really was no answering that one; he was determined to despise her, it seemed (and perhaps, she reflected gloomily, he had reason.) Conveniently, he turned and left, after a small stiff bow, so that she could stick her tongue out at him with impunity.

She waited patiently for his footsteps to fade out of , she sighed, and collapsed ungracefully onto the floor to sit cross-legged, staring blankly at the weave of the carpet. After a few moments, it occurred to her that the sendings were still present, and she looked up. "It's all right. I'll be all right. You can go."

Slowly, the pale forms began to depart, and an afterthought presented itself to her. "Oh. Wait a moment. May I have some hot chocolate?"

* * *

Mirayle sat up in bed with her hot chocolate, shrouded in the blanket she'd kicked off her bed earlier, and tried to think over what she'd learnt from the Book of the Dead. 

She wasn't pleased. Aunt Sabriel had mentioned that the Book sometimes kept pages back until you needed them to Susellen once, erroneously believing that a supposedly dozing Mirayle was actually asleep, but Mirayle was sure that this wasn't forgetfulness brought on by the magic of the thing. It was much more mundane, and meant that she'd not memorised it properly.

Mirayle swore quietly to herself, thinking of having to read any part of the Book of the Dead for a second time. It would get easier, she was fairly sure, and partly her dislike of it stemmed from her sister's loud and pervasive rants on the subject of the book.

Susellen had hated it. She'd hated reading it, she'd hated looking at it; she hated having to touch it and she hated talking about it, unless she was venting her feelings on the subject to either her unsympathetic younger sisters, or her more understanding cousin Sam. It had never made her physically sick, although she was careful not to read it directly after mealtimes or before going to bed. She just hated it.

Thinking about the subject as her hot chocolate slowly cooled, Mirayle wondered if Susellen had been glad to give up the bells- if they'd been one reason why she'd left them all. Even speculating so to herself made her want to cry, a little; or sleep, and she didn't dare sleep until she was sure that the nightmares were gone- if they went at all.

Susellen had done several things neither of her sisters would ever have considered, such as spending month upon month in Corvere –Mirayle would have had the jitters the entire time she was there; too far south, and Filris would have missed her Charter Magic and books badly- choosing to stay on the other side of the Wall, and marrying a man from Ancelstierre. (Not that Filris and Mirayle weren't very fond of their cousin Francis, and their father, but as Sam had once told them after an incident involving a cold denial of the existence of the Old Kingdom from a sixth former who ought to have known better, the inventive revenge of two really-quite-close siblings who ought to have know better, and double detention for weeks, there were Ancelstierrans and there were _Ancelstierrans_.)

Mirayle wanted to know why, so she thought about Susellen. She drained her cup of hot chocolate, put it down and tipped her head back against the headboard, staring upwards. She rifled her memory for every time Susellen had said that she was sick of the Book of the Dead and sick of fate, sick of being told that she had to do this or that. Every time she'd been angry with Mirayle, every time she'd complained to Filris in Mirayle's hearing that no-one understood about reading the book.

"_Why me? Why not one of you... others! What if it wasn't supposed to be me, it was supposed to be you? What if Mother... made a mistake?" Susellen says despairingly, pacing the room, her words filtering through the six years that separated them from the present._

"_Mother never makes mistakes." Mirayle is slouched in the armchair, legs slung over one arm, deep in a book. Her glasses are slowly but surely sliding down her nose._

"_You're too young to know that everyone makes mistakes, Mirayle." Susellen fidgets._

"_I am so old enough..." And with that, Mirayle's glasses slide right off the end of her nose and onto her book. "Damn!" she says, angrily, forgetting Susellen's words in the blur of her vision. "That's the third time this morning!"_

It was just one instance, Mirayle mused unhappily to herself, but there had been others like it. Only a few; Susellen practically had 'dutiful' stamped across her forehead, which was why her sudden departure had been such a shock. She'd agreed, Mirayle thought to herself as slowly, slowly, she tallied up what she knew of her sister, to everything that was asked of her. She was the perfect daughter to the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, understanding, clever and serious; the perfect aristocratic guest to grace political parties and dinners in Corvere; the perfect sister, sweet, helpful and confidential (although Filris rarely confided in Susellen, and even Mirayle had guessed that if it was a really important secret, with actual consequences, Susellen would be one of the first to tell.)

And yet... it still didn't make sense to Mirayle; she couldn't balance the idea of leaving the Old Kingdom with no turning back, and Susellen- or Filris- or any of her family. She'd always taken for granted that it was a good place to be, a place of safety, and although 'safety' was something she was almost imperceptibly ceasing to associate with her home, the decay of that notion had barely started.

It was at this point that a messenger bird, hurtling through the air around Abhorsen's House, hit her window.

* * *

Not unnaturally, Mirayle jumped and screamed, waking up the house for the second time. She scrambled out of bed, seized a dressing gown and wrapped it around herself, stuffing her feet into a pair of random shoes and tore out of the room and out of the House, bypassing sendings and a confused Clayr who had been woken up at an unearthly hour for the second time in one night. 

Nevertheless, he followed her as she shot through the door, barely avoiding the backswing of the brightly painted wood, and round the corner of the house, where she was bending over a small dark bedraggled thing. He watched, still not understanding, as she picked it up gently, and then as he hurried towards her he guessed.

A messenger hawk?

Mirayle did not answer the shouted queries from the few Rangers –Captain Tomas not among them- who had come to find the reason for the scream. She was answering the bird's mechanical voice- "Message for Mirayle Sayre. Message for Mirayle Sayre."

"Yes," she said soothingly, following the suggested formula for calming the feather-witted avians down so they could give their messages that she'd been taught when she was eleven or. "I am Mirayle Sayre. Tell me."

* * *

Many miles away, an army of the Dead waited, patiently, just at the border of Life. Their leader stood behind them, unwilling to turn his back on them; six foot tall, perhaps, dressed in black and red, his short black hair greasy with not having been washed, his skin dead white and his eyes staring at something that was not the grey mists of Death. A perverted Charter mark crawled and twisted on his forehead and his bloodless lips moved in a constant silent spell, wisps of acrid steam escaping as he performed the weather-spell. 

In Life, the river-town of Qyrre cowered damply under the constant onslaught of grey rain, that covered the entire Kingdom excepting those parts too ingrained with Charter Magic old and new: the site of the Great Stones and the palace over it, the Clayr's Glacier, Abhorsen's House, and an island in the Ratterlin Delta where Wallmaker House had been built by Prince Sameth.

There was one other exception, though. The necromancer's eyes snapped wide open, and he drew his sword and stepped forward into Life, taking his host of the Dead with him.

And as the rain stopped, a Royal Guard who was slightly cheesed off about having lookout duty on such a miserable day was horrified when an enormous army of the Dead, led by a tall man in black and red –_who laughs as he kills_: he remembered with sickening clarity the dreadful message from the Yanyl guard billet, which had been so abruptly cut off, saying with silence what could not otherwise be described- appeared, not far from the town.

He ran from his post, ringing the warning bell and shouting for his colleagues, but it was too late. There had been no warning, not a sign, not a whisper. The lookout, his comrades and the townsfolk were as good as dead, even as he tried to alert them to danger.

The hawk's black eyes stared panickily ahead of it, and suddenly the message began, words spilling out. It was a girl's voice, confidently spoken, but quickly and with an edge of fear; a child's voice. She recognised it- Aletta, Prince Sameth's ten-year-old daughter, who should have been at school, but had managed to catch influenza and had been confined to her room for the past two weeks for fear of passing it to her younger brothers.


	17. An Idea

**A/N:** 2,575 words. It's progress. This will be your last chapter for a good month or so, because May is doing NaNoWriMo again, so I hope this is good enough for your sakes, because when on earth am I going to have the time to revise it, writing 1-2,000 words of a different story?

* * *

In the gardens of Abhorsen's House, clouds of rain parting around the island, a teenaged girl knelt on the grass, cradling a hawk in her hands. The hawk's yellow eyes stared panickily ahead of it, blinking infrequently.

_Message for Mirayle Sayre. Message for Mirayle Sayre._

The message finally began, words spilling out. Mirayle knew the voice: it belonged to a cousin of sorts, to a Wallmaker. Prince Sameth, as it happened. He sounded very worried.

"Mirayle, the Clayr Saw you cross the Wall today- I hope you have reached the safety of the House, but you must stay in Abhorsen's House if you are there! The entire Kingdom, as far as I have been able to find out through the mirrors, is under spelled rain that tastes of Free Magic, and Aletta and Sam went fishing not far away, before the rain started here. They haven't come back. Mirayle, _you must not leave the_-" The message cut off, but not because Sameth had been attacked or disturbed, but because the message had reached the limits of the bird's brain, a common failing of the message-hawks.

Mirayle stood, and looked at the few Rangers still standing around and wondering what was happening. "Nothing to see here. It's just a message. Go away and get some sleep." She walked towards the small mews, conspicuously ignoring them as her mind raced. Things seemed much more serious now than they had from the other side of the Wall. Even since the early stages of their trek into the Kingdom, when Mirayle had thought (so irreverently, so foolishly, it seemed now) that if she failed to strike up a conversation with someone she might lose her mind to boredom, things had changed.

She felt an intense urge to go and sit at the dragon desk and just let herself fall forward until her head hit the wood, as she'd seen her mother do once or twice at the height of frustration. _Was there anything else that could possibly go wrong?_ she wondered irritably as she poured water into a bowl for the message-hawk.

Levin had followed her into the mews. "Who was that?"

"The Wallmaker," she answered briefly, running through her admittedly limited vocabulary of curses in her mind. None of them seemed remotely serious enough to cover the situation. "This really isn't a good time for an interrogation."

"This isn't an interrogation."

"Isn't that up to the victim to decide?"

"You tell me."

Mirayle glared at him. It was surprisingly uneffective, and she relented, aware that since all the Rangers were not what she'd call reliable right now he was probably the only trustworthy person in the House, sendings discounted. "All right, it's not an interrogation. What else do you want to know, since I'm not being interrogated right now?"

Levin ignored the bad grace with which the question was phrased, and said calmly: "Just two things. Firstly: do you intend on obeying this command to stay in the House?"

Mirayle did not speak for a moment, taken by surprise. "Not really," she said finally. "I'll leave the Rangers behind, though. I think. It all depends."

"Good. Who are Aletta and Sam?" He had retained his calm, which only made him more annoying.

"The Wallmaker's two older children," Mirayle told him, frowning- not at him, but at the idea of cautious Sam and his more outgoing sister Aletta suddenly gone. "Sam is fifteen and Aletta is ten."

Although she wasn't looking at him, she could practically hear the not-quite-censorious eyebrows rising. "They live in the middle of the Ratterlin delta!" she snapped. "Of course they go fishing. And Sam is the most responsible person alive, and they'll be armed, of course- or at least Sam will, and Aletta could make friends with a _tree_. They'll be _fine_. I mean, look at the R-" She stopped mid-sentence. "Charter bless me, that's_ it_!"

"What's what?" he asked, now slightly confused. The Abhorsen-in-waiting's daughter seemed to be not only jumping but leaping from conclusion to conclusion, without announcing the intervening thought processes.

"Look, if you put something somewhere, something else similar from the place you put- well, let's say it's a tree- so, if you use magic to put a tree somewhere, the effects of the magic move another similar tree to where you moved the first tree from, yes? Basic law of magic! So why should it be different with people? And the spelled rain. Raining everywhere. That could be countered easily, if all the bloodlines work together, because you need lots of mages for a big weather working, yes?- so if even one of them is taken out of the reckoning, it just doesn't work, and the whole plan-" Mirayle said rapidly, her words sped up by excitement and an unreasonable smile threatening to split her face.

"What plan?" Levin demanded, developing the distinct feeling that the young woman might just have grabbed hold of an important idea here, but since he couldn't make head or tail of it –something about trees and weather working- it was totally useless.

"-Haven't got there yet, it must be something to do with the Dead, remember the Guard post, but that's all I have so far. Hush! Anyway, with just the one gone, it all falls to pieces. So there has to be something besides the rain to distract and upset people, specifically, the Royal Family, the Clayr, the Abhorsen- well, Susellen dealt with that all by herself, didn't she, but never mind –and the Wallmakers! What better than missing or otherwise imperiled members of their families?"

"So," he said slowly, trying to make it make sense to him the way it was clearly making sense to Mirayle. "So, the Wallmaker's children, gone to upset and distract him?"

"His two oldest," she corrected. "But yes! See? If one of the Clayr was missing, maybe more-"

"But I heard of none missing-" he said, almost understanding.

"Doesn't matter! You would have left the Glacier by the time they vanished, if you needed to get to Ancelstierre! So, a Clayr or more missing, and someone who won't make too much of a noise going but still cause a huge panic once gone. Who's most likely? Who'd be out of the Glacier frequently?"

"Members of the Paperwing Flight, messengers, or the Rangers," Levin said. "No, members of the Paperwing Flight, because Rangers mostly patrol, rarely going far, and messengers have ways to send word home, but the Paperwings go long journeys and could have to land or be delayed by storms. So our friends in no particular uniform turned up because of the spell to move such people? This makes _sense_."

"Yes!" Mirayle smiled, so excited she completely missed the mild barb in 'this makes sense'. "It protects the mages at the bottom of this, causes even more panic among the people- they'll be thinking, who's next if they're not safe, I guess –brings people here to occupy some poor soul, example, me, and probably takes out some of the most important people in the realm. They don't have to bother with the Abhorsens, they know, because they'll know I suppose that I'll follow your message into the Kingdom and they won't try to block the Clayr seeing me or anything even if they can do that, because nothing will upset Mother quite like knowing her youngest daughter is messing about like this." She winced. "I'm really going to catch it for this later."

"Catch what?" Levin inquired, diverted.

"Get into trouble," she clarified absently, thinking about other things. "Who would they have taken from the Clayr or Royal family, though? Someone... important, or... important to important people. Not killing me outright, which they could have done had they only bothered to wait a bit at the Guard post, suggests- it suggests whoever's the head of this is- is playing with us, for want of a better phrase. It's like chess, someone really good deliberately handicapping themselves to play with someone who's really bad." _Susellen did that_, her racing mind reminded her, and she dismissed it as best she could. "That makes me think that they won't have taken my uncle and aunt or older cousins, because if whoever they are wants to panic important people then Kess or Ro or Sean or Idica... they don't hold government posts or run the country, they're too young, but everyone knows who they are and there's no better way of terrifying people than taking young relatives away from them without leaving a trace. You see?"

Levin nodded, mentally reeling at the speed with which she seemed to move now, assured in her discovery. It was a complete change from the girl who looked so much out of her depth when General Tindall mistook her for an Abhorsen grown, rather than the Abhorsen-in-waiting's youngest daughter. "And now we need to apply this logic to the Paperwing Flight?"

"Or whoever else is at risk," Mirayle acknowledged, grinning confidently. "You're also part of it, because you're off trying to keep me from accidentally dying, unless I misread that note. Who do you think? You know the Glacier a hundred times better than I do. I only visited a few times."

"Well," Levin said, regaining composure, "the Paperwing Flight is quite large; some of the best Charter Mages belong to it, so any of those going unaccountably missing would create upset." He thought for a moment, and he felt a stab of panic as he realised who was most at risk. "My cousin, Mishali. Not long in the Paperwing Flight, a good Charter Mage, fairly strong Sight, and Ryelle's only daughter, which means she's closely related to two of the most powerful Seers and influential Clayr. And me," he added, almost as if he hadn't meant to.

"Oh," Mirayle said, slightly uncomfortably. She discovered that it was unpleasant to talk to people related to possible casualties. "Second cousins, or?..."

"First."

"_Oh_." That made him Sanar's son. _You can trust the messenger who carries this,_ indeed, she thought mildly, recalling the contents of that note. "Er... why don't I know you, then?"

"You were too young to remember the visit in which your oldest sister pushed me into the Zally Fountain," Levin informed her, who had very vivid memories of the incident. "If memory serves, you would have been all of four years old. Susellen succeeded in breaking my leg and half-drowning me. Not on purpose, you understand. She slipped and fell against me, knocking herself out in the process. I spent the remainder of your visits trying to avoid your family."

Mirayle considered that for a moment, then pushed it to the back of her mind. "That explains matters, then. Er- I'm sorry on Susellen's behalf. Anyway... well, now we have a clue to what's going on. That's useful."

There was an awkward silence. "See you in the morning," she said eventually, ignoring the fact that it was already so late it was early, and went back to her room.

This time, she slept, with no nightmares. In fact, she overslept, so that she found herself dressing hurriedly, dragging a comb through her hair and taking an apple out of the orchard for breakfast, because the others- clearly early risers to a man, even with such a disturbed night: Mirayle was used to early starts, but she was also used to enforced early bedtimes and nightmare-free sleep –had been and gone before she was up.

Mirayle sat on a branch of one of the trees in the orchard, and reflected on last night's discovery. Even sitting and considering now, wide awake, if late up, and not haunted by the aftermath of an extremely vivid nightmare, it made so much sense, although there was of course the alternative version: Aletta and Sam are missing because they're dead and the Rangers walked into a magical working from their own country by mistake. However, Mirayle was inclined to think that the Rangers had been taken because Aletta, Sam, and whoever else had been moved to wherever the Rangers had come from, in order to put pressure on the Kingdom's leaders. It was like a hostage situation, only there would be no explanatory note, no demand for money or power, and, quite likely, no returning the 'hostages' dead or alive.

She finished the apple, dropped the core, and thought about what to do next, both immediately and in the future of this escapade. Mirayle thought that, somehow, no matter what her cousin said, staying in the House wasn't the only or even the best route to take. True, there were three Abhorsens alive. Unfortunately, the Abhorsen was almost certainly somehow pinned down in Belisaere, as were most of the Royal family, the Abhorsen-in-waiting was likely to be there as well, and the less said about herself the better.

That was another thing. She'd have to study the Book of the Dead, rereading from the beginning, write down her thoughts on the plot that seemed to have formed around the Charter bloodlines, and talk to one or all of the Rangers about the circumstances in which they'd accidentally left their country and what those countries were like (after all, she was likely to have relatives there by now.) She wasn't going to enjoy any of those tasks, so she might as well do something she was good at, and needed to do, for a bit.

Mirayle looked around. It wasn't raining over Abhorsen's House, although she could see the fine sheets of rain parting over the island, and for the moment she wanted to do something active. The bells and her swords were in her room: she'd checked on the bells before she came down. Perhaps now would be a good moment for some practice. If nothing else, it would give her something to do.

At this time, Mirayle estimated that they had four or five days of safety in the House. The person behind this was playing a long game. He (which pronoun Mirayle preferred over 'it') knew that if he wanted the Old Kingdom, he couldn't just go for the Charter bloodlines and the Stones or Wall, destabilising the Charter. There were now instead of the single remaining royal and Abhorsen that had been present to fight back forty years ago seven Royals in the Charter bloodline proper, not forgetting their five Wallmaker cousins who might also be eligible, and five in the Abhorsen line. One of the Abhorsen line lived in the well-defended Clayr's Glacier, and another in deepest Ancelstierre, where she intended to start a family, who would also be of Abhorsen blood. The Wallmakers lived somewhere in the large, water-filled Ratterlin delta, on an island. A very well-fortified island, the precise location of which very few knew. It would be too hard to get to them secretly.

_So instead_, Mirayle thought, _he chose to cover the Kingdom in rain, which seems like an illogical move until you remember that rain like that blankets sound, limits sight, and renders everyone unhappy and disinclined to go outdoors or do much at all. The faint taste of Free Magic in it will be frightening Charter Mages all over the country, which is a bonus to him even if he couldn't avoid it_.

She got down from the tree, storing these thoughts up for later, and went to fetch her swords.


	18. A Couple Of Disappearances

**A/N:** 3, 274 words. My God, it's a record. And eighteen chapters? Oh, yes. I'm getting the hang of this multichapter thing. I think. Even if this is a woefully late update. Er. Sorry.

For disclaimer see previous chapters.

* * *

Even in the comparatively short time Mirayle had spent trekking across the Old Kingdom and dealing with recalcitrant Rangers and her own bad dreams, it felt as if it had been forever since she'd done a decent sword drill, with no-one gawping.

In Belisaere, that was easy to do. Susellen or her mother would have attracted much more attention. But in Wyverley College, it was considerably more difficult. Even if the other schoolgirls didn't come to see a 'real live Old Kingdom lady', they came to watch a prefect practise swordfighting with _two_ swords, of all the outlandish and un-southern things to do. Fencing was ladylike enough, with its carefully preserved tradition, heavy protective gear, and delicate manoeuvring. It was good for balance, excellent for improving dancing ability, and it didn't do one's health any harm either.

The swordfighting taught to a surprisingly large number of pupils was a little more questionable as far as propriety went. It looked, to an untrained eye, as if it was meant in much more seriousness- as if it could actually kill. Carefully, the Headmistress made sure that it was not obvious that swordfighting was taught when Open Days came round, and gave it a very small place on the prospectus, but she was no fool, and knew that swordfighting had saved many Wyverley College students when Kerrigor came. Therefore, she refused to drop it.

But even Ancelstierran swordfighting was not comparable to the way Old Kingdom nationals fought, which was a way of fighting that had survived centuries of being used as a very important method of self-defence and had centuries more to go. When Princess Kenesse had attended the school, she had drilled with an Old Kingdom sword in the Old Kingdom fashion, and had even taught a friend as best she could in order to have a half-decent opponent, but she fought with a conventional one sword only, and Mirayle preferred two. It was peculiar. It was beyond the pale. It was not something of which Corvere matrons would approve. So naturally it made desirable viewing for teenaged schoolgirls.

Mirayle didn't enjoy being thus watched. Therefore, sketching out her drills with her swords in her quiet home courtyard, doing her level best not to think of anything else, she found a certain amount of peace.

Despite the fact that she was trying not to think of anything but the next movement, she inevitably found her mind drifting towards her cousins' plight. There was no way of telling whether Mishali, Aletta and Sam had been the only victims of the spell, although solely based on numbers she guessed that it had been otherwise, and she desperately wished she knew what had happened and how. Whether they were still alive; whether they were injured: where they were, and in whose company- if anyone's. But no way of knowing, no way of telling, and no way of finding out, certainly not for the inexperienced Mirayle. Certainly not when there was so much else she was concerned with.

She messed up her next step, but recovered quickly and continued.

Susellen would have scolded her for that mistake. Susellen, too, was out of reach, through all her failings and contradictions and perfections a confidante, and a sensible advisor. Failing Susellen, Mirayle would have chosen to speak to Filris, but Filris was inaccessible as well, a long way away. And the teenager didn't really feel like trying to fly a Paperwing so far, particularly not if it meant leaving strangers in her House unsupervised.

The girl shoved her reflections into an obscure corner of her mind, and forced herself to think only of the next sword-stroke.

* * *

_Only a brief time ago, a Paperwing had coasted in the sky by a glittering river. The rain had not yet begun, and only lurked on the horizon, no threat to the green craft and its pilot. _

_They were fairly near a waterfall when the first notes of the bell rang out. Smaller than the one that Abhorsen's House was built almost at the lip of, it was nevertheless tall. A competent swimmer, though, might have jumped it._

_The young Clayr did not panic yet, though she was well aware the bells were necromancy, and whistled up the wind harder, faster, trying to take them over the river in the hopes it would negate the spell. But no such luck- it had caught, and the Paperwing stalled with a convulsive shudder, and then came down jerkily to land by the riverside, where a darkly dressed sorceror waited._

_Mishali already __knew the river for her only chance. Even though she was a very good Charter Mage, she had no hope alone and unprepared against a necromancer and sorceror, especially if the Paperwing came down to land as hard as she thought it would, possibly injuring her. She dragged at her helmet and heavier flying clothes, fingers flying clumsily to unbuckle, and saw that the spellcaster had miscalculated a little. The Paperwing might well tip over the edge of the land by the waterfall, tumbling down to crash-land in the trees below, rendering it impossible to steal and pervert to Free Magic, and this course of events would be more likely if she was not in the craft._

_She glanced at the necromancer and then at the river, which was coming ever closer. Mishali could only think that he wanted her blood to break Charter stones, and she did not want that to happen. If she was going to die in the next few seconds, she would prefer to drown than have her throat slit. So she tensed, and as soon as the Paperwing was close enough, she vaulted over the side closest to the river and, feet splashing in the shallow, fast-running water, ran towards the lip of the waterfall. The sorceror had not expected this turn of events, and it took precious seconds for him to begin an incantation to stop her in her tracks. Then, realising that she was going to make it, no matter what he did, he elected to start the spell to spirit her far away instead, and did so._

_Mishali had jumped by the time he finished, the Paperwing had fallen and crashed. But, unknown to her, the spell took hold, and dragged her away from her own place. This didn't matter much to her at the moment, not while she was swimming for her life, desperately trying to keep her head above water. Later, when a party of hunting elves noticed to their great surprise unusually human-shaped and blonde jetsam floating wearily down by the ford and accordingly fished said blonde jetsam out, it would matter very much. _

_And despite her evasive actions, the first part of the plan of the necromancer who intended to lay waste to the Kingdom and its Bloodlines was set in motion._

* * *

Mirayle put her swords down for the moment, and stretched. She knew nothing of Mishali, and nor did she know that Levin had gone and found himself a quiet corner to close his eyes and hope to see an almost-sister in one of the dizzyingly vivid visions that came to the Clayr. She only knew that she had some unpleasant tasks to complete, and that she might as well do a little exercise first.

* * *

_Many had said that Sameth II, son of the Wallmaker and his late wife, Elen, was a __'very sensible lad', even though he was only fifteen and rather bookish. They did not say the same things about Aletta, preferring to call her 'friendly' and a 'sunny child'._

_Never mind the platitudes and worn phrases spoken by courtiers. They were correct insofar as they went, but Sam and Aletta also made a pretty good sailing crew, even on their own. The _Lady Elen_ –named after their mother, naturally- barely required sailing, anyway. Built on the same lines as the Clayr's smaller boats, as intelligent as a Paperwing, she was steady enough that Sam and Aletta were confident of their ability to sail her a little way away, do some fishing, and be home well before sundown. Besides, they were with Mogget, who had been bribed into not pestering the elder Sam, who was engrossed in creation, by the promise of fresh-caught fish._

_Unfortunately, a sorceror, a different one to that which had sent Mishali far away from home, was waiting hidden. This one was so old that few knew its name, or its sex, and had been assigned to these two children because Mhor, the mastermind, had power over it and enjoyed using it, and because they were expected to put up more of a fight together and on home ground than the Daughter of the Clayr, who'd be alone and out of control._

_It didn't bother with taking the boat out of action: there was no point. While Mishali might well not be able to land her Paperwing in the unknown site she had been sent to, Mhor had assured it that the _Lady Elen_ would be in water enough to float, keeping Sam and Aletta alive for as long as they could handle themselves alone. Apparently, this was 'like a game of chess', and Mhor hoped that at least one of the Charter bloods would step up to play, but meanwhile he should not 'directly' try to kill them, because that was not 'fair play'. _

_So it left matters as they were. It waited quietly for the best moment, hidden beneath guards that an unwary Charter blood would not notice, nor even an ancient Free Magic entity if they weren't paying attention. And then, when the best moment arrived, it just sent the boat, its entire contents and all its passengers to a location near Gondor. Mogget had hardly time to hiss: Sam and Aletta were turning to see what had caused it when they felt an unpleasant jerking and sinking in their stomachs, and were knocked off balance so that Sam tripped and fell hard to the deck and Aletta tumbled overboard._

_As a direct consequence, it was a Bright Shiner spitting sparks in his anger, a soaked ten-year old girl and her confused, bruised brother, staggering on the deck of a small boat that appeared from nowhere who found themselves floating with the current down a river. But no matter how furious Mogget was at being successfully jumped and effectively abducted, it would not help them survive._

_A second piece to the necromancer Mhor's plan was therefore in position._

* * *

But of course, Mirayle still knew nothing of this as she drilled and stretched and tried out a few cartwheels and handstands. Her cartwheels were still untidy, and her handstands shaky, but they'd do, and in a way it was comforting that this at least had not changed over the past few days. She was not inclined to go and find anyone for a practice bout, even though she would have liked to have tried her fighting against the Rangers' style. Since different places developed different fighting styles, it would be relatively easy to see if they were truly from somewhere different and strange. _Do I even doubt that any more?_ she wondered. _Or am I just procrastinating?_

She sat down for a brief breather, to think about what she should do next. Of course, there was Captain Tomas to speak to, her theory to write down- Mirayle glanced upwards at the ever-present rain, streaming down and parting over her home –her pack to re-pack, more practically this time and checking she'd forgotten nothing, and plans to make.

On the principle that it's best to get the most unpleasant thing out of the way first, Mirayle stood, determined. She would talk to that captain. And she would get sense out of him.

Captain Tomas, unaware of her decision, was reading. She wasn't sure what, as she approached and caught a glimpse of it. The writing was completely different to anything she'd ever seen outside of an ancient history lesson: it looked more like runes than anything else.

"What's that?" she asked, side-tracked. The captain would have leapt a foot in the air, if he hadn't heard her move closer.

"It is a legend of Gondor," he said a little grandly. He was quite right to label it a legend rather than a story; it was much too grand and sweeping to be a story. However, Mirayle was unmoved. Her family created legends just by existing and doing what they were supposed to do, and when you look at legends close up they're not so shiny as they are to the rest of the world. This possibly explained why Mirayle had never taken fairy tales so seriously as most small children.

"Oh, a story," she said with interest, thus ruining any vestigial good opinion Tomas might have had of her by demoting the legend. "Is, er, Gondor where you- no, I'm getting distracted!"

Captain Tomas, apart from lowering his notion of her intelligence a few notches, was rather surprised by the last phrase, which seemed like a self-admonition. He didn't let it show on his face, thinking that the crazy girl would surely explain herself shortly.

Mirayle sat down opposite him, another unexpected move, and, lacking the articulacy to be less blunt, said abruptly: "I think I know how you got here."

There was a brief silence. No rattle of questions, no thanks. Mirayle thought she recognised the expression on his face: it was one she'd seen on her father, once or twice, and Lord Edward Sayre. It said: _Prove it to me_.

She took a deep breath. "I hope I can explain this clearer than I did to Levin. Anyway. You remember the Dead things at the Barhedrin Guard post?"

The captain nodded. Of course he did: he expected opponents to stay dead once killed, but these had been dead already, things from a nightmare. He had seen her fight them, and was willing to admit that she could use a sword, and knew at least a little of what she was doing. He put aside the tale, and prepared to hear the girl's- what did she call herself? It sounded like 'miracle', he recalled –theory.

"Well," Mirayle persisted, gratified to see that he had laid aside his story to hear her speak, "messages I've received-" borrowing phrases and euphemisms from her father's slick handling of Ancelstierran-Old Kingdom diplomatic relations- "indicate that it's a widespread problem." She paused briefly, lining up the sentences in her head. "By which I mean the entire Kingdom's not just drenched in this rain, it's under attack from more of those things. I'm not the best informed of people at the moment, so I am currently unaware if there is a siege situation, but as far as I know a necromancer- do you have that term where you come from?"

"Yes," he answered. "In old, old tales. They have not been seen to walk Middle Earth in centuries."

"We get them a lot. That's what my mother and aunt and Su- what my mother and aunt do, they hunt necromancers. I think a necromancer is ruling a group of other necromancers and sorcerors, and using them to level as much of the Kingdom to the ground as possible. With me so far?" she continued, wincing inwardly for that last Ancelstierranism almost as soon as it was out of her mouth.

He nodded slowly. She was making sense; slightly garbled sense, and he couldn't see what it had to do with the distressing geographical accident he and his men had suffered earlier, but it was nevertheless sense.

"I think this group of necromancers arranged themselves so that they could abduct young-ish relatives or friends of this Kingdom's rulers. To upset them, and to upset the people. Only, the thing... the thing about moving things with Charter magic... or Free, I guess..."

She fell silent, unsure how to explain this to someone who'd drawn a sword when he saw a simple light spell. In a burst of interest, Tomas said: "Tell me about Charter magic." Mirayle looked up, shocked.

"I... You mean you want me to explain how Charter magic comes to bring you here? It doesn't, that's the thing. It was Free Magic that moved the Wallmaker children and the pilot, Free Magic that brought you here. That must have been what made me sick afterwards. It's all a guess. It's a pretty good guess, though," she added hurriedly.

The captain waved a hand rather impatiently. He'd hoped that she'd pick up on the prompt. "Tell me about how I was so unfortunate as to appear here. That will do for now."

Mirayle rolled her eyes. "In summary, Free Magic was used to move Sam, Aletta, and several other people to wherever it is you live. The reaction that effect caused was to move you and your men here, only because you were a side-effect there was no-one choosing a spot to put you down in, so you turned up about thirty miles off-target in northern Ancelstierre. There. Excuse me, I have other matters to attend to." Irritated, she stood, and walked off as quickly as she could, completely forgetting that she'd intended to talk to Tomas about his homeland.

Mirayle sat there in the study, a brief time later, writing quickly. In actual fact, she wasn't writing all that quickly, because she was trying to make it neat as possible so that someone else could read it. She was also writing in bullet points, in order to be concise. They went something like this:

'-Necromancer, name unknown, giving large group of other necromancers/sorcerors orders.

-Covers the Kingdom in rain to immobilise & demoralise.

-Kidnaps Aletta Wallmaker, Sam Wallmaker (Two), Paperwing pilot & Clayr Mishali & ?several others to distract/frighten

-Sends aforesaid to unknown place (name Gondor?)

-Because of this several men from same place (soldiers? Call themselves 'Rangers') appear in Ancelstierre near the Wall'.

It perhaps did not occur to her that this would not make that much sense to many Old Kingdom natives, especially if they were not familiar with the Ancelstierran ampersand or the use of a forward slash to denote different possibilities or options. Either way, she signed it, scattered drying sand over it, and carefully not looking at the _Book of the Dead_, which had somehow migrated from the shelf the sendings had put it on, behind a glass case, and dashed away.

Or rather she didn't. Rudely, her conscience seized her by the scruff of the neck and demanded that she listen to it. Her mother was Shiners knew where, her aunt's location equally uncertain. Mirayle didn't even know if they were alive. Her sister was in Ancelstierre. There was no Abhorsen to help her, and although it might not be up to her to do something, to do anything, she was damned if she wouldn't do it. _Because you can't do nothing, right?_ her conscience prodded her. _Susellen made it your business._

If she was going out there, she should go as an Abhorsen, or risk worse than death. Even as a half-trained, self-taught Abhorsen-child she would have a better chance than she did now. _Mother read the Book on her own, didn't she?_ Mirayle thought, and told herself, _and she had the Destroyer to deal with. Really, nothing can be worse than the Destroyer. Besides, Susellen thought I could do it._

She glanced back at the book. "Don't look so innocent and unassuming," she snapped. "I know what you are." _Oh, Charter help me_.

And then she went and sat back down. Pulled the book towards her. Started to read.


	19. A Book

**A/N:** It's been a long time, and I guess all I can say is sorry. That and 'please review?'

See previous chapters for disclaimer.

* * *

She sat there a long time. There had been a brief break to ease a painful cramp out of her hamstrings, and another distraction while she carefully explained the concept of sandwiches to a sending. The sandwiches- cold roast chicken –had been eaten while she was reading, her eyes on the page, her mind just about deadened enough to the more gruesome descriptions' impact that she could eat. There had been a dodgy moment when she'd got up quickly and fled outside, convinced she was going to be sick, but leaning quietly against the outside wall, eyes closed, the sickness subsided and she went back indoors. 

Mirayle did not know if the information she read lodged in her mind. _I was so sure before_, she reflected bitterly as she left the study in search of a glass of water. _So sure, and it was all gone_. She knew that she would simply have to keep reading, and keep reading, until she knew there was something there. She could recall it now, but that meant nothing.

_Until the last page_, she swore to herself. _Until the last page, the last sentence, the last word. I won't give up_.

She slipped into the kitchen, fetched a glass and went to the sink, where she removed her glasses- they were dirty, and the lenses were covered in fingerprints: she had noticed while she was reading –and started to wash them, before drying them, replacing them, and refilling that glass of water.

Mirayle went back to the study, carrying her glass of water and thinking about what she'd read. Although she was trying to push it away from her mind, to lock it out while she concentrated on the Book of the Dead, she couldn't help thinking of Aletta, the younger Sam, and the other missing people, wondering if she could really do anything to help them. The feeling recalled an old, deeply buried memory, and Mirayle first began to get an inkling that she was not so dissimilar to her mother as she believed.

She remembered a night a long time ago, when she was six or seven, and her mother had returned to Abhorsen's House late at night bleeding sluggishly from a long wound on her left leg. That night, Mirayle had been unable to sleep after a nightmare. She had crept out of bed, out of her room and had been standing silently, shadow-like, unnoticed near the stairs, debating whether to go and find her father and tell him or whether to go and pester Susellen for sympathy when her mother had stumbled in at the door. Lirael's face had been drawn with pain, the skin greyish from exhaustion, and her voice a tired whisper; she had not needed to call for Nick, he had come out of the study as soon as he heard the door, going right past his youngest daughter, who pressed herself into the shadows. Her father had helped her mother remove the armour, the bells, the sword, and carried her upstairs because Lirael's left leg wouldn't bear her weight. They both completely missed the child's quiet watching presence, and Mirayle, emboldened by this, had crept up to her parents' door when it shut, and listened at the keyhole.

That was what recalled the memory to her now. The half-murmured private conversation, Lirael telling Nick that she sometimes believed there was no end to the Dead and no rest for her ever. The anguish and the despair in her voice, the way that even the next morning which shone bright and sunny it was clear to all three children that their mother was upset. Mirayle had kept quiet about what she had heard, but had not forgotten it, and as she opened the study door the whispered words met her ears again, and she wondered if she would despair so if she thought about the true scale of her predicament for more than a few minutes.

The girl banished the thought from her mind, and replaced it with thoughts of the book. She was near the end for the second time by now; the sky was darkening in early evening.

Mirayle entered the study, and took a sip of her water before sitting down again. She found the sentence she'd read last, and started to scan the pages once more. It seemed a little easier this time: she was taking in information that had left faint impressions on her memory, for all she couldn't properly recall it. She forced herself to pay more attention this time, repeating every sentence to herself in her head.

An hour later, she reached the end of the book. There was one page left, though she was almost sure she had finished it: she hadn't read further before, she thought.

Mirayle turned the page, and read.

_Does the walker choose the path, or the path the walker?_

The girl gasped in pain. The words looked as if they were written in fire, and as she read them her vision clouded and blurred, her head burst into a ferocious, agonising headache. Her balance was shot to pieces, she discovered as she tried to stand, knocking her chair away, one hand dazedly held to her forehead, the other feebly held outwards in an attempt to balance, and she collapsed onto the floor, her legs unable to support her. The solid thump of almost six foot of human and a chair hitting the floor attracted attention, and she saw through vision that was see-sawing and disturbed that a sending had appeared in the doorway, followed by Levin, who glanced over its translucent shoulder and raised concerned eyebrows at her. "Is something the matter?"

"No- yes," Mirayle managed to sat, trying to lift herself off the floor and make it to a comfortable armchair nearby. The sending hurried to help her, its moonstone hands cool on her skin. She sat down, and closed her eyes. She heard Levin move over to the desk and glance at the book, and a half-strangled "no!" escaped her.

The Clayr glanced back at her, picked up a ruler, and flipped the book shut with it. He preferred not to touch it. "What happened?" he asked quietly, seeing her open her eyes again.

The raging headache had calmed a little now, and she could see straight. "I don't know," she answered, unsure whether to be frightened or not. "Don't touch the book."

"I don't intend to." He passed her her half-finished glass of water, and she finished it quickly, gulping greedily, and then he left. The door swung quietly shut behind him.

Mirayle put down the glass of water on a coffee-table without looking, and then glanced at it, realising she'd felt something other than table then. Mirayle picked the something up: it was the book on weatherworking her father had dog-eared, and that had called something to her mind which she now realised must have been the rain with its taint of Free Magic. Perhaps it had helped her come to the conclusions written and signed on a piece of paper so much earlier.

The teenager sighed, slipped off the shoes she still wore, and curled up in the armchair. The headache was slowly decreasing, and as she waited for it to go completely she toyed with the book, opening it to the page that had been dog-eared just to touch it, to hold something her missing father had held. The front endleaf had been signed _from Lirael to Nick, because you are so interested in magic _in her mother's neat handwriting: the date beneath told Mirayle it was a present from before her parents were married. She brushed the writing with a finger, and flipped onwards- until suddenly, unexpectedly, several fluttering whitish things fell out of the book.

It says a good deal about Mirayle, her reflexes, and her recent experiences that her reaction was to scream, and leap crabwise out of the chair, hands beginning to sketch a Charter mark, all of which had the effect of bringing Levin and two Rangers thundering into the study, to see a sheepish Mirayle looking at a lot of neatly folded pieces of paper that had been hidden, pressed flat, at strategic points in the book. One of these looked much newer than the others.

One of the Rangers quietly sheathed his drawn sword and left, discipline and slight fear of what the girl might do preventing him from shaking his head and laughing until he got well away from the room. The other, rather more curious in nature, remained, as did Levin.

Filris Sayre had made friends in the Glacier, among them Sanar's son, and being the bookish daughter of the Abhorsen family she knew a lot about the dangers that might be found in the Book of the Dead or some of the other more perilous volumes in the House library. She had told him of a number of these, and since he was supposed to be looking after her sister he thought that when a scream was heard coming from the House library he ought to investigate. Having done so, he found himself eyeing said sister with a certain amount of irritation and a defensive Charter spell in his hand. Levin sighed, wiped the Charter symbols from his mind, and waited for an explanation, along with the Ranger standing slightly behind him.

Neither of them got one. Mirayle, who had her back to them, appeared to be reading one of the pieces of paper, momentary fear overcome by inquisitiveness. It looked like a letter from the distance away the two men stood at, in perfect neat handwriting. The girl's shoulders crumpled, and her hands flew to her face; even though she was trying to stifle it, it was clear that, for some reason, she was crying. "Shiners bless," Levin muttered with real feeling, adding several words no well-brought-up Clayr should strictly know to the end of that phrase. Going on the mumbled expression of horror in a rather poetic langage from the Ranger behind him, they were in agreement over the undesirability of seeing a teenage girl break down in tears in front of them. She didn't even seem to be aware of their presence.

Levin backed away from the door for a moment, followed by the Ranger. Filris Sayre, in a kind attempt to prepare him for meeting her sister, had spoken of her a little while he packed to leave, and she had not even mentioned the possibility of tears. It seemed completely out of character. The Ranger kept retreating, but Levin stayed where he was, thinking a moment. Then, he slipped forward, into the study.

Instead of speaking to her, he prised the letter that had made her cry out of her fist, and held it up so he could read it- and then dropped it again, very quickly.

_Dear Nick_, it had begun. _I miss you so much- it's cold here, and wet and swampy, which is worse. I keep wishing I were at Belisaere with you; people keep staring at me here, just as they do you sometimes, and it would be nice to talk to someone who understands-_ Levin had stopped reading, then: he did not wish to peruse the Abhorsen-In-Waiting's personal letters. He looked down at Mirayle's dark, bent head, and realised that her glasses had fallen victim to her grief- they were lying on the floor. He picked them up, and gathered up the rest of the letters, stacking them neatly.

Mirayle had by now discovered that there was someone else in the room with her, and being aware that if she was going to be Abhorsen, she shouldn't really be crying in front of people she didn't know very well, she was trying to stop her nose running, her eyes watering, and find her glasses, all at the same time. Levin noted this, and handed her the glasses. As an afterthought, he passed her a handkerchief as well.

Mirayle stuffed her glasses back onto her face, and blew her nose thoroughly. "Thanks," she mumbled, and got to her feet. "Where're the- the letters. Oh. Thanks," she repeated, seeing that they had been neatly stacked and placed on the desk. "I'm- sorry. The papers startled me, and- damn these glasses, I can't..." She took them off again and started to polish them on her tunic. They were absolutely filthy despite their recent wash, covered in fingermarks, and she did her level best to rid them of every single mark. This meant that she missed Levin's attention becoming riveted on the spine of a book on the opposite wall- though he did not see the book or the wall.

While Mirayle had read the Book, Levin had sat quietly, hoping for a sight of his cousin, something to tell him she was safe and well, and no such thing had come. He hadn't truly expected it, but you had to try, didn't you, and at the moment he was at a loose end until the Abhorsen-child thought of what to do next, when there would probably be no time for any such attempt. He had given up for the time being, and had been returning to the House from his quiet shaded corner in a garden when he had heard the sound of someone falling heavily and rushed to see what was the matter. Now, completely unexpectedly, without warning, at a time when he could have done without it, Levin Saw.

_A young woman, soaked through, gripping the green grassy banks of the river she floated in near a ford. Her blonde hair had come loose, covering her face, and her long-fingered hands were the nut-brown colouring of the Clayr. A party of men on horses- hunters, but richly dressed__ for hunters –saw the figure in the water, obviously in distress, and rode towards it. The vision moved closer, and they dismounted nearby, moving towards the woman. She saw them- pale blue eyes, bright with fever already, flashed with panic in a face very like Levin's, and she loosened her weary grip, but one of the men seized her wrists and pulled her towards the bank, towards them._

Mirayle looked up. "Levin? I said 'thank you'. Levin?" She watched the statue-still figure, and guessed. "The Sight. Oh _no_."

_They managed to get the sopping wet, feverish figure out of the water, and she had not the strength to stop it. "What's your name?" one asked._

"_M- Mish'li..." Her eyes were half-closed, her breathing shallow, it was hard for her to get the words out, but now her eyes flew open, and she reached feebly upwards, perhaps seeing the phantom of her cousin. "H- help... me..." _

Mirayle saw the Sight leave him, and then he swayed, disorientated and drained. He hadn't spoken, as Clayr sometimes did when the Sight caught them, but he was certainly not going to stay standing up. She leapt forward and tried to steady him, then found too late that he was too heavy: inches taller than her, broader shoulders, much more muscle. She sank to the floor for the second time, trying to stop his head hitting the ground heavily.

Mirayle sat there for a moment, distinctly unnerved by the entire course of events. She'd have to ask him what he'd seen, because whatever it was, it had seriously affected him. She had only watched a Clayr who had just Seen once before, and then it had been over quickly and the Clayr had not passed out. She picked up a cushion from the armchair, and put it under his head. Then, she ran for a couple of sendings. There was no way she could lift him on her own.

Being in a hurry, upset by the letters, the strange headache that had come when she'd read those words at the end of the Book of the Dead and gone just as quickly as it had arrived and Levin's collapsing, she didn't look where she was going, and as a direct consquence barged straight into a Ranger. She yelped, and glared at the obstacle. "Bloody ouch! Look where you're going!"

The obstacle decided to stand up for himself. The girl couldn't be more than sixteen, after all. "With all due respect, my lady, you were the one not looking where you were going."

"True," Mirayle conceded reluctantly, and then added with a glare "but not _my lady_, do you hear? Mirayle will do just fine." She paused, and then decided this was not the time to pick her assistants carefully. She wasn't even sure if the sendings could lift Levin. "Levin's collapsed- the messenger. In the study. Can you help me get him to his room? He's too heavy for me to lift alone."

"Collapsed?" the Ranger queried, a little surprised by the gi- Mirayle's amicability.

Mirayle nodded and shrugged. "The Sight."

The Ranger, whose name was Emrys and who had caught the capital letter on 'the Sight', wondered what marvels or horrors this land would turn up next and what 'the Sight' was, but obligingly followed Mirayle- who had turned imperious –back to the study. The man she had called 'Levin' was indeed heavy, but somehow between them they managed to get him to the room he was using. That had required a bit of guesswork, on account of the fact that neither of them knew exactly which room Levin had borrowed, but it didn't matter.

"Thanks," Mirayle said, smiling, when they'd finally succeeded in putting the unconscious messenger somewhere more suitable for waking up after passing out than the study floor. She had been surprised by the Ranger's co-operation, but supposed that Tomas had enough control over his troops to make them behave warily in a strange country as a precaution. That would have affected their behaviour before.

Emrys nodded and smiled briefly in return, making a mental note not to mention the incident to his captain, who clearly disliked Mirayle. "It was nothing."

Some time afterwards, Mirayle sat skimming the Book of the Dead (the headache had long gone, and although she was wary of getting complacent, she was much surer of her knowledge of the Book for a reason she couldn't pin down) in the study when Levin managed to stumble in. She got up quickly: he didn't look very steady on his feet. "You shouldn't be up yet!"

He glared at her, and she faltered backwards a step or two; he might not be properly balanced, but that glare was pure venom. "There's danger."

"You don't need to tell _me_ that," Mirayle said crossly, recovering. "What did you see?"

"My cousin," Levin answered, gripping the doorjamb to keep himself upright, and thinking of the vision that had knocked him out, and had been followed by a hundred other dream-like snatches of things that suggested the Old Kingdom was in a worse state than he had guessed. His head was pounding, but he knew what was coming next: this had been one of the snatches he'd seen. The dark-haired girl by the desk, the words. Three short sentences, a reply from her, she looks out of the window, agrees. "Among other things. We've got to go. We've got to do something."

"Got to fight," Mirayle supplied, heart sinking. She felt the same: they had to do _something_. She glanced out of the window at the sheeting rain that didn't seem to stop. She had no idea how she could fight this thing, and she knew she was going to make an empty promise. She hoped she could fill it soon, and looked back at Levin. "All right. Yes. I promise. Now _get back to bed_," she added, glad to be back on familiar territory. "You need _rest_."

He went, and Mirayle got up, and wandered over to the stacked papers, the ones that had fallen out of the book. She picked one of the newer ones, and unfolded it. It was some sort of map, drawn meticulously by her mother and labelled by her father. Her eyes dashed across it. Strange symbols, calculations on the margins in pencil she couldn't even begin to understand, and a single, hurried sentence written at the bottom, like a message to the girl reading it.

_His name is Mhor, and he laughs as he kills._

Mirayle exhaled slowly, shoving back the rush of emotion that came when she read her father's handwriting. So- a map. A key. She studied it, and frowned. _But it makes no sense!_

* * *

A long way away, a teenage boy stares down the point of an arrow. "Aletta!" he calls his younger sister, who is shivering in the wind and soaked through, her clothes drenched, grey eyes wide and brown curls glued to her skin with the water. "Get in the cabin." 


	20. A Map

**A/N:** Okay, this is long. 4,500 words. I hope it's all right; please do let me know if it is not. I'm a touch worried about it, it's harder to proofread such a large chapter.

I HAVE MADE A PENCIL SKETCH OF MIRAYLE'S MAP: IT MAY BE OF SOME USE TO THE CONFUSED. Take the spaces out of the following webaddress:

http:// rainymay. art/Mirayle-s-Map- 77567798

Also, this chapter is practically a game of Spot-The-Five-Great-Charters-References! That being Sanaryelle's epic fic about a time long, long before Sabriel, which is well worth the read; fret ye not, I'm not a plagiarist. If Sanaryelle says she'd prefer the references gone, they will go.

Reviews would be lovely.

**Disclaimer:** see previous chapters.

* * *

Filris Sayre was eighteen years old, and not inclined to hysterics. She was a good librarian, with a steady ability to stare down danger and be sarcastic about it afterwards. Like her younger sister, she was deeply affectionate and clever, and if her sense of humour didn't recommend her to many at least that didn't affect her work as a librarian.

She got on with the sendings, had practically memorised certain portions of the catalogue, was an accomplished Charter Mage and not scared of Free Magic beasties (although Vancelle had it on good authority that she preferred to sleep with a nightlight and was frightened of Death and the Dead.) In fact, Vancelle mused as she watched the younger woman, there was only one drawback to Filris Sayre- and that was her Sight.

"The Chief's watching you," Carielle muttered to her colleague. Filris half-smiled and nodded absently.

"Charter bless, where is Tad?" she remarked crossly, picking up one of three newly-mended copies of_ Travels In Ancelstierre_ due to be returned to their place and brandishing it. "He's getting less and less reliable."

"Shedding Charter marks," Carielle observed knowledgeably, and noticed Filris's posture start to stiffen.

"Bugger," Filris managed to say with real spirit and feeling as her already paper-white skin drained of any colour, and she swayed and clutched at the table, mouth working, forming half-sentences. The pipes in the pocket of her waistcoat bashed against her hip, and she shuddered at the remembrance of her first trip into Death intruding on the tiny storm of visions. She was cold, despite the warmth of the Library, and her head started to ache.

_There she goes_, Vancelle thought, and sighed. She picked up a book waiting to be mended, and pretended to examine it while keeping a sharp ear out for Filris's explanation. Despite the fact that the young woman never saw the whole scene, and no-one was ever sure if she saw present, past or future, she did occasionally pick something up that corroborated other Clayrs' visions, or the Watch's latest disaster prediction. Speaking of the Watch... Vancelle frowned, and recalled the fuss Ryelle had made earlier about her missing daughter, who should have reported for Watch duty some two days ago. Charter preserve, everyone knew that Paperwing pilots crashed in unexpected places more frequently than they liked to admit, and the damage often took some time to repair. Young Mishali was probably patching her craft together and cursing the air currents right now...

Vancelle shook herself, and returned to her task: eavesdropping on a junior librarian. Fortunately, Filris had only just managed to get a grip on herself and what she'd seen, and so hadn't begun describing it to the eagerly listening Carielle.

"Could you tell who it was?" Carielle asked excitedly. "When it happen- is happe- I mean, will happen?"

Filris Sayre picked up Travels In Ancelstierre from where she'd dropped it, and gently dusted the covers while she thought of how to describe the elusive, irritating fragments. At least this time, they hadn't made her speak out loud: announcing 'blood on the stairs!' in the middle of dinner had been most embarrassing, and it had only been some merchant tripping and grazing an elbow anyway. "No," she said carefully. "And no... light on bells, keys, blood, dark cloaks, hilt of a sword in the shadow, rushing water, grey rain, rocks beneath, blue eyes, bricks- no. Ow._ Bugger_," she added, returning to a favourite Ancelstierran oath, which no Old Kingdomer she had yet met- excepting family, and one lone Paperwing pilot whose eyebrows had shot up when she heard it- was aware of the meaning of. She was sitting on a tall stool- she felt a little better now, her conscious reasserting itself over the part of her that Saw, and she wondered if she should try standing. Thus, she made the attempt, and looked around her, still clinging to the table.

Unfortunately, she looked straight into a mirror on the opposite side of the room. Reflective surfaces had always brought on Filris's Sight, and now more glimmers and gleams and enticing shards of true visions flew at her, enveloping her in them. Carielle watched the other woman's eyes dart this way and that, blinking furiously, until Filris collapsed back onto the stool with a headachey moan. "I think I'll just... stay here for a moment."

Across the room, Vancelle slapped the book shut decisively and bad-temperedly. Filris's fragments only served to confirm what the Nine Day Watch had seen (and then promptly been sworn to secrecy, every single one of them) which more or less boiled down to the simple facts that Mirayle was going to launch herself out on a hopeless quest to try and get rid of the red and black necromancer, and Levin being Levin and a byword for quiet stubborness, he would stay with her. And so, in all probability, would that ramshackle, tatterdemalion, and hopelessly prideful bunch of men-at-arms Mirayle had succeeded in confounding even her unshockable aunt by discovering. Two leaves fluttered out of the book, dislodged by her mistreatment of it. Guilt-stricken, Vancelle retrieved them, and glanced at the young woman who might or might not be a Remembrancer, and who was mortally frightened of Death. She looked sore; that girl Carielle was bending over her, and looked really quite concerned.

Vancelle put the book down, and strode over to the pair of Third Assistant Librarians. "Well? What's going on here?"

* * *

At approximately the same time that Carielle noticed Vancelle's approach, Mirayle thumped the desk with the side of her fist. "Curses!" she snapped.

It just didn't make any sense. It was a good sketch-map of the Kingdom, and her parents had taken the trouble to colour-code all the symbols and the little dotty lines, but neither her mother nor her father had bothered to draw a key, on the map or among the other bits of paper. That was most peculiar, more so than the scrawl at the bottom.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven," Mirayle said wearily, picking up the papers again, "please, please, please help me make sense of this!"

Since Mirayle didn't believe in God, after approximately six minutes more of staring at the parchment in the hope it would reveal its mysteries she followed this up with "Shiners all aid me," something that the Royal children's nursemaids had often sighed when the Abhorsen girls turned up and proceeded to run riot with their cousins.

Improbably, the Shiners did, by the somewhat backhand agency of Captain Tomas being marched into the study by the cream-robed Bathroom Tyrant sending. Mirayle stared at them. The Bathroom Tyrant was known for its ability to grow or shrink, depending on the size of the person to be forcibly washed. Right now, it was roughly six-foot and a half, and had a very firm grip on Tomas's left earlobe. The Captain was red in the face.

"Explain, please," he said frostily, over the sending's communication that it wished Mirayle to explain to this person that he was very dirty and ought to have a bath at once, "why I find myself being dragged out of my camp by this- this thing!"

Mirayle, who was listening in some confusion to both sides of the story and disentangling them as she went, burst out laughing. This did Captain Tomas's face no good whatsoever, and his resemblance to a half-cooked lobster only increased. He, not being in possession of a Charter mark and attuned to the sendings' manner of communication, had no idea that a centuries-old sending was describing him as 'filthy' even as Mirayle laughed and demanding that Mirayle ask the man when he last had a bath. The fact that the camp he referred to was a collection of tents on a lawn did not help.

It took some time for the girl's mirth to die down, during which the captain turned rather quickly to the colour of stewed red cabbage. "If," he said with awful dignity, "you would consent to behave in a fashion suitable to your high rank-" he almost sniffed the last two words, as if he considered it indecent that she be high-born- "it might be possible to discover some sense in this conclusion!"

"I doubt it!" Mirayle gasped, removing her glasses to wipe her eyes of helpless tears. She prepared to explain this particular sending to the captain, and then thought of something. He had been reading before, a book that looked well-looked-after, and she wondered if he didn't just like reading, but puzzles. She picked up the map and waved it at him. "You've been trapped by the Bath Tyrant, a sending who's been forcing Abhorsens to take baths against their will for time immemorial. Do you like puzzles and codes? Because I've got a really good one here, and the funny thing is the fate of the Kingdom might rest on it. If you'll help me with this dam' thing, I'll try and rescue you from the sending. You might have to take the bath anyway, but it would be a lot less embarrassing than being dragged there by the sending," she added conscientiously.

Tomas blinked, a little lost for words, but digesting what Mirayle had said. "You mean that this is... a nursemaid, a servant created by magic, and it makes people take baths?"

"Yes," Mirayle said succinctly, and went off into the giggles again. "Mother thinks that whoever made it was a little over-enthusiastic, so it now seeks out any people it thinks are in need of a bar of soap and hot water at any time, not just children when it's ordered to. We have no idea who we've got to blame, because it's so old, but the Abhorsens' diaries-" she gestured at the rows of books in question- "suggest that one of the really early ones is the culprit, because there are lots of little mentions of it sprinkled about. Like this: '_Third day of the fifth month of the second year of the reign of Queen Eleanna. Found and defeated a Mordicant a league and a half south of the Clayr's Glacier. Returned home in the Paperwing, and was seized by the sending with the cream robe almost on arrival, and duly cursed my Aunt Idiriel's name for installing plumbing. At least with the previous system I would have had time to remove my boots myself._' I made up the date, because I can't remember which monarch was reigning at the time, but apart from that it's absolutely true. Filris sewed part of it on her sampler, but the teachers made her take it off..." She coughed, and was prompted again by the insistent sending. "I'm sorry, I rambled. Anyway, the sending wishes me to ask you when you last took a bath."

Tomas looked truly horrified. Mirayle felt sympathetic; the sending still had a firm grasp of his ear, and she had been in the same situation herself. The sending tugged, and the captain cursed in an oddly melodious language. "Some time ago," he admitted grimly. "Now will the damn thing let me go?"

"Probably only if you promise to take one and I tell it you really do mean to," Mirayle told him. "It might listen to me. Mind you, I'm very busy. This is a fiendish code, and I intend to crack it." Following the promptings of the same part of her that had steered her and Filris through hilarious revenge on a sixth-former who should have known better than to deny the Kingdom's existence to them, she turned her back on him, and bent industriously to work on the code.

The captain fumed. Everything else had been bad enough, the girl's angry speech, her nightmares, her ridiculously arrogant behaviour, the horribly unexpected change of scenery, but this was too much. "Look here, you can't-"

"I can," Mirayle interrupted, turning back and grinning. "Want a go at this?" She waved the map in the air.

The captain fumed even more. The colour in his face showed no sign of receding. Now she was blackmailing him! Humiliation, or working on a code that the girl couldn't crack herself. Humiliation in the eyes of his men who he could already tell might not follow him if catastrophe continued to pile itself on catastrophe and he was shown to be badly prepared; he had not commanded them for long, and he did not easily grow to command their loyalty. Making them laugh at him might prove to be a disaster.

"I am sorry," Mirayle added, with some genuine feeling, "but it can't be helped. Very few people can thwart that sending. If I speak to it, you can go and lock yourself in one of the rooms with running hot water, they all have towels and soap in. It's not much better, taking a bath because otherwise you'll be dragged to one, but it is a bit better." 'Some genuine feeling', because she couldn't help recalling every time in the past hours when Captain Tomas had been unspeakably irritating, and when she'd wanted to hit him, and thought that this was a really good way for him to get his comeuppance.

Tearing herself away from such vindictive thoughts, she smiled as pleasantly as she could at him. Unfortunately, the pleasantness did not really mask the gleeful mischief there. "So what do you say?" Mirayle asked cheerfully.

* * *

Some time later, the captain and Mirayle sat in the dining-room. Those observing closely would have noticed that the captain had a distinctly well-scrubbed look, and was wearing a disgruntled expression and clean Old Kingdom clothes that had once belonged to King Touchstone. Since Touchstone was a good two and a half inches taller than the Ranger, they didn't fit very well.

Mirayle had moved the code-breaking operations into the dining room in order to spread the map and any material she thought might have relevance to cracking the code, including a normal, full-detail map of the Old Kingdom and a sketch one, as well as an almanac. She had also brought pen, ink and paper in to do working-out on.

"It must be something to do with the phrase at the bottom," the captain said finally, tapping it.

"I know," Mirayle replied, "but... how? _His name is Mhor, and he laughs as he kills_. That can't be a code. My parents would never have left me a code like that, they know me too well to expect me to crack it!"

"You described," Tomas pointed out with great precision, "the existence of a family of seers. Is it possible that you have been seen to break the code by them?"

Mirayle made a discouraged sort of snorting noise. "Did I mention that they see possible futures, not certain ones, or did I think that was a step too far?"

"You did not mention that, no."

She sighed, noticed that the nib of her pen had broken from ill-advised and too forceful tapping on the table, and reached for a new one. "Well, what they see isn't for sure. Humans make choices, and those change the future. Taking one fork in a path as opposed to another could ruin a country, instead of making it the most powerful, or... whatever. They inform people of what they see... so that the, the most- the best outcome – someone can try and make the best outcome happen. Hm." She wrote the phrase down on a clean sheet of paper in capitals, circled it, and drew lines coming off the circle with space for her to write ideas.

"The colour of the ink?" the captain suggested suddenly, realising that the phrase had been written in green ink, darkened because it hadn't been diluted so it looked black in the wrong light- odd, because even in the well-stocked Abhorsen's House there was little green ink, and that had been found neatly stowed away behind several other colour inks. Not diluting pointed to a hurry- but the way it had been put away was not as if it had been used in a hurry. "Only one of these symbols is green, and it is the largest. The dotted lines coming away from it are red. The symbols in blue are placed- almost randomly, but where the red lines cross them there's a jagged line through them, as if they were br-"

"Broken!" Mirayle exclaimed, throwing down her pen. "Where's that map? The full-scale, I mean!"

Quickly, they unrolled it on the table, and Mirayle's eyes searched for the symbols that represented Charter stones, cross-referencing them with the blue symbols on the map. More or less, they matched. She gave a little gleeful laugh. "You've got it! Those are Charter stones! This map represents the web of power over the Kingdom! The ones you thought were broken- that's because they are broken. They would have disturbed the power currents of Free Magic, made the whole business impossible. Oh, I see, I see." She examined it eagerly. Those, those must be comparatively minor necromancers. Yes; that symbol might be a simplified upturned bell, now she looked at it. And then the one in the middle... that must be Mhor. Yes. The crackling jagged circle, the heraldry symbol for Free Magic- only ever used in paintings of Abhorsens or fell sorcerors, she dimly recalled; she'd once seen a dulled painting from long, long ago, preserved by the arts the Wallmakers had then, of a tall dark man dressed in old-fashioned gethre armour and Abhorsen's livery who wore the bells. One of the very early Abhorsens, it might even have been Gabriel or Cassiel...

Stop it, she told her mind fiercely, and hoped that dragging up old memories wasn't always going to be her brain's reaction to difficult situations. Looking at the map again, she announced "It's incomplete."

Tomas, who had been rejoicing in the victory she'd assigned him, was startled. "Incomplete?"

"Yes." Mirayle traced the dotted red lines with a finger. "No matter how powerful, he couldn't hope to subjugate the Kingdom with the power and work of ten necromancers and himself. Ten years ago it would have been a different story, the Destroyer and Kerrigor before it made a mess of the Kingdom. But now we're strong." She thought about how to explain that she knew that the Kingdom was strong just in case he asked. Its pulse beat with hers, as it did for others of Charter blood, and that was all there was to it- but he didn't ask. "There must be others," she persisted. "Minor sorcerors and Free Magic creatures, probably just there to lend power. Some maybe even trapped for the purpose. That would explain these little lines." She was right; there were lines raying off the smaller bell symbols.

Tomas surveyed the code map again. "Tell me about these places," he demanded, pointing to the points where the smaller bell symbols were.

"Well..." Mirayle said, focussing. This was something she could do. She indicated the one marked on the Ratterlin Delta. "This must be right near Wallmaker House..." And launched on an explanation.

* * *

Mhor liked to think of himself as a general, and no general could have hoped for better position of his troops. They were neatly spread all over the Kingdom: three surrounding Belisaere, where the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, the Abhorsen, the Destroyer's once-avatar, and almost the entirety of the Royal line were. Others spread strategically over the Kingdom, one to the Great Sickle Wood, one near Gardil, another in the West, not too far from Uppside. One necromancer only was assigned to the Clayr's Glacier, but that one was strong, and the red and black necromancer thought it not immediately necessary to crush the Clayr. However, handily, the girl who might be a Remembrancer or might not was pinned down there. He knew she was scared of Death; perhaps, some time in the future, Mhor would allow the necromancer stationed there to chase that girl's spirit into Death, and have a little fun. It was not the way Mhor would chosen to conduct himself, but that necromancer's tenuous loyalty was worth a few displeasing habits, and after all, in the grand scheme of things Filris Sayre was not worth very much.

Mhor stood in the gates of Qyrre, watching the Dead swamp the town, and smiled thinly and without humour. A young guardsman bled to death where he had been run down by a Dead thing, his screams filling the air and joining the hell-made chorus of destruction. No, it wasn't Filris Sayre that interested him, not now, but her younger sister. He had told the necromancer he set on Aletta and Sameth Wallmaker- he felt a stab of painful vengeance- _that pretty little girl with her brown curls and grey eyes was just the age he had been, it would be sweet to think of her alone, destitute where before she had been worth everything, for he did not expect that cruel harsh Denethor would allow the boy to live, and it was perfect revenge, a perfect reverse of his own fate_ – he had told it that this was like a game of chess, and that he hoped a Charter blood would stand forth to play. Perhaps Mirayle Sayre had not precisely intended to play against him, to play the next move, when she crossed the Wall, but she had. The smile widened. And if she was anything like her antecedents, she would fight hard, and die hard, and maybe that would be a sweeter and more immediate revenge than that he wreaked by sending Aletta Wallmaker to a pitiful life.

_He had been young, the Easterling prince, when the men of Gondor came to kill. To sow the fields with salt, to burn the houses, to murder all. They spoke of wrongs against them, when no wrongs had been committed- they had taken over land that had belonged to the Easterlings, years before, and the Easterlings went to take it back: where in that was the crime? It had not been committed by the prince's people. _

_ Denethor had been young then too, and a brave man and a skilled fighter. He had not even yet married his sea-bride, Finduilas. And he had wanted revenge, for he had had friends among the lords who controlled the Gondorian land that had once been Easterling, and the Easterlings had killed them all. So he allied himself with the Rohirrim, and the men of Dol Amroth, and the three banners together swept through Easterling lands, breaking the Easterlings like so much glass, crushed in a mailed hand. Fire and cries and screams rent both night and day, and the men of the white city and the grey sea and the green hills were the cause of all the pain and suffering the little Easterling prince saw. _

_ Then the enemy came even to the walls of the Easterlings' greatest stronghold, where the prince was, bright fighting spirit cooped up because he was too young and too frail to fight- only ten or eleven years of age –and the king and what remained of his battered army made a final stand before its walls, and died an honourable death. _

_ But the prince fled the fort with bitterness in heart and mind and a few trusted soldiers to guard him in a search for safety anywhere it could be found, for the princeling might be young but he knew that Denethor would have no mercy for him. Even while he fled, the fort was ransacked- his absence realised- the forces of Rohan, of Dol Amroth, of Gondor swept onwards, searching, searching, before the boy became a standard for the Easterlings to rally about, a common cause. _

_ The boy fled and fled before the menace, his companions picked off one by one by the archers of the alliance, but himself untouched. Until, unhorsed and running, gasping for breath, he stumbled into a cave. He passed the statue of the tall stern man with one arm sweeping outwards and the other holding a hunting-horn, passed into the cold depths of the cave, twisting and turning in its tunnels till he reached daylight, and found a merchant caravan. _

_ The prince collapsed at the feet of the merchant caravan headed for the Clayr's Glacier. He did not know that, had he taken a different turn in the cave systems, Mosrael's Caves, he might have reappeared in the ancient, dusty parts of the Clayr's Glacier, or had the sounds of pursuit driven him down, down, into the icy cold, he might have frozen and died there, cold and alone with the last traces of the Waker. They were old, old and forgotten, those caves, and the kingdoms of the Easterlings, of Gondor and Rohan and Dol Amroth, were unknown. The men and women of the caravan believed him just a wandering, feverish child, and so did the Clayr he spoke to, desperately hoping they would believe his story. It was true that he was desperately ill, the time of escape and hiding telling on him. They took him in, and had him Charter-baptised; taught him a little magic, the laws of the Kingdom, and some of its legends. They fed him, kept him safe and well. _

_ But the prince had always been arrogant, and had always had the makings of a bully. He still ordered other children about, convinced of his supremacy, even though he no longer spoke of his Easterling kingdom. He got into fights with children who objected; they shunned him; he became unpleasant to deal with, defensive, and violent towards others. He was obsessed with his old home, determined to find a way to it, and when he fell into the company of a Free Magic sorceror he spoke of it. He fascinated the sorceror with his tales, who told him that together they could find a way home for him, and give him power above that of any Gondorian Steward, Prince of Dol Amroth, or King of Rohan. So the prince left the caravan, and became the sorceror's apprentice. He learnt the ways of Free Magic and necromancy, learnt to hate the King and Abhorsen and Clayr. As the years passed, the Abhorsen defeated and killed his teacher. It wasn't as if the prince had had affection for him, but the teacher had been a means to an end- returning home –and after all, the prince had thought then, he served me faithfully. He still thought in terms of being served, not serving. _

_ But though the prince tried, though he hung around Mosrael's Caves, Rangers and merchants alike catching frightening glimpses of him, he never found a way through. Though he fought Abhorsen, he was never strong enough. Sometimes, the Abhorsen inflicted terrible wounds that took a long time to heal. The prince was a lonely and solitary man, driven by revenge and the sick crackling fire of Free Magic and a wish for power. _

The malicious smile left Mhor's face, he banished the memories for now. He hoped, oh, he hoped, that Aletta and Sam would suffer as he did, a scapegoat for all the wrongs that had been done him. Children of the Abhorsen and Royal lines, darling of the Royal line as much as the Crown Princess were, dear to every single Charter bloodline there was. He hoped it hurt them to think that their children might be suffering even now.

And Mirayle? Well. It was her move now.


	21. An Unexpected Disturbance

**A/N:** A long time, but this's nearly 5,000 words, so I hope you'll forgive me. ;) Sting- Yes, I know it's not here- the chapter just didn't turn out that way.

Reviews, plz?

* * *

Many people, at many different times in their lives, describe a headache as 'splitting'. They don't know what they're talking about.

Levin, on the other hand, did. Given his mother and aunt's very strong Sight, the Clayr as a whole had expected him to be just as strongly Sighted as Sanar and Ryelle, so when the Watch had Seen a twelve-year-old Levin become Sighted they had had great expectations of him.

Well, to tell the truth, they didn't know what to expect. But most of them were sure it would be spectacular.

It was, it just wasn't spectacular in the way they thought it would be. Levin did get extremely strong visions, but they were very infrequent and he sometimes passed out after them. Sometimes, he threw up as well. Almost every time, he suffered a headache that could truly be called splitting; the worst ones made spots dance in front of his eyes, he couldn't balance, and he felt like his head was being squeezed by a band of implacable iron or squashed by one of the Wallmaker's contraptions for holding things in place.

He was having one of these now, he discovered, as he opened his eyes, found the light painful and promptly shut them again.

"Is it the light?" a voice asked, and he identified it as that of Filris's sister. "I'm sorry," Mirayle continued in an apologetic tone, and Levin heard her get up to draw the curtains.

"Thanks," he said.

"It's nothing," she answered him. "I should have known, Filris always reacted badly to light after one of her visions."

He tried sitting up. The motion made him a little dizzy, but he managed it.

"We've found a map," Mirayle remarked conversationally, but watching Levin carefully from where she sat on a chair by his bed. "It's got the positions of most of the necromancers and sorcerors taking part in this business on it."

"Good," Levin said. The dizziness was getting worse. Mirayle, who had often looked after Filris in the last months her sister spent at Wyverley College, when the visions became unbearably frequent and something as small as a glass of water could send her off to a world of maddening glimpses and ferocious headaches, recognised the symptoms and gently pushed him down.

"Don't be an idiot. You surely know getting up now will only make matters worse. No," she added firmly, for Levin's eyebrows had drawn together and his face taken on a stubborn set. "You will stay there and rest, or I will sew you to the bedsheets." An empty threat- Mirayle had always been mediocre at sewing –but one her mother had often uttered, faced with a child determined to evade sleep.

Levin scowled at her. Mirayle raised her eyebrows and folded her arms. "Oh, come on, idiot, you know if you get up you'll fall over."

Levin realised that was probably true, but did not stop scowling.

The girl sighed. "Have it your way, then." She got up and crossed the room, tossed Levin a mischevious grin for what she was about to do- then left, closed the door, and locked it with a Charter spell. The messenger swore. Mirayle's laughter trickled through the door. "Try and sleep!" she called, and then he heard her footsteps leaving.

* * *

She laughed then, but it didn't take her longer to return to a grimmer frame of mind. She was still faced with facts that seemed to make any action from her impossible, or at least foolhardy. Although she had Susellen's bells and she'd read the book, she wasn't willing to put more than tentative confidence in any ability she might have. The map had been a tremendous help, and had given her hope for a while, but the fact remained that it was too far to travel to challenge the major necromancer with the small amount of time they had.

Thinking, Mirayle meandered around her home, seeming not to see anyone else and missing walking into walls by the skin of her teeth. She had to do something, she thought, but what? What could she do? Maybe the Headmistress had been right, maybe this was too much for her, maybe she should have stayed behind and put her trust in the grown-ups.

She stopped short of walking into the Rangers' camp and began to circumvent it, watched by most of the Rangers. Captain Tomas confined his attention to his reading matter, but the others didn't bother to keep their curiosity from being obvious. Mirayle paid no attention, and continued to stroll as if dazed until she avoided a tree and got a twig in the eye for her pains. "Ow!"

Most of the Rangers tried not to laugh, but as inevitably happens in these cases, a few stray snorts escaped. She turned a half-hearted and weary glare on them. "Don't, I haven't the patience."

"Apple for them?" Emrys suggested after a few moments, attracting surprised looks from the other Rangers which he answered with a faint shrug. He was struck by the difference between the active Mirayle who had asked his help- or ordered, Emrys still wasn't quite sure –and this one, who looked puzzled.

Mirayle took a second to filter the idiom through her brain and work out what he meant. "You mean, what am I thinking?"

"Yes."

The teenager paused, indecisive, and then decided that it could hardly do any harm to acquaint them with the difficulty, as they were probably already of the opinion that she was incompetent. She fished the paper with the map on it out of a pocket, and passed it to the Rangers. "I found that in a book belonging to my father. Your captain decoded it, and it seems to be a map of the power lines causing all this... mess." She waved her hands vaguely. "I don't think anyone ever came up with a word for people like you appearing, members of the royal family disappearing without trace, and a ruthless necromancer holding the Kingdom in his grip –oh, and soaking it with rain. Unless 'Interregnum' counts, and you lot didn't turn up then anyway." She took a deep breath. "Nor was it constantly raining then. And now that I've found the map, I have to do something. But I don't know _what_ to do!"

Emrys took the map, and glanced at it. A good sketch map, but complicated by lots of little symbols. He pointed to a small key by the river. "What's that?"

"That's Abhorsen's House- this place," Mirayle explained, circumventing tents to move nearer. "The tower on the little northern bit that's not quite an island is the capital, Belisaere, the trowel in the south-eastern delta is Wallmaker House, and the star in the northern mountains is the Clayr's Glacier. The little scrolls are Charter stones –the ones with the jagged lines through are broken- the big jagged circle is the mastermind of the whole plot, and the other symbols- those ones," she indicated the upturned bells to the interested Rangers, not entirely sure how else she could explain them, "those are more minor necromancers. The dashed lines going off from them are probably links to power sources, either captive or willing." She looked at Tomas, still obviously in a terrible mood after his enforced bathing and code-cracking (to make matters worse, he'd picked Susellen's empty room with its water supply to lock himself in, and Susellen favoured lavender soap, of which he had been forced to use large amounts in order to achieve cleanliness, thus creating a pleasant lavender whiff about the place.) "I don't suppose you explained to them how you lot arrived here in the first place?"

"No," Tomas said, burying his nose in his book.

Mirayle resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. It was not proper to mock a commander while his troops were in earshot. "A spell intended to remove young relatives of important people from this country and transport them to yours brought you here as a side-effect, only since it wasn't being aimed you landed on the wrong side of the Ancelstierran border. Thing is, those missing important people's relatives are my relatives too, and I don't feel inclined to sit around while they're sent maybe to their deaths and their kidnapper does his level best to rid the world of me and the rest of my relatives."

She looked at them. They were passing the map around; now she'd explained the encoding they seemed to understand it. "You see," she said, feeling quite sad and useless, their comprehension reminding her of what the map had shown her after her first delight in understanding it, "wanting to take revenge and knowing about what's going on, that's simple enough. But how... I don't know how. It's just too far to travel to his stronghold in the forest and you have to cross the Ratterlin, which is wide and deep, and I don't know what may have happened to the towns and bridges."

"Mm," was all the answer she got. The Rangers seemed to have seized on this as a concrete problem to solve, and were discussing it between them, occasionally in bits of that melodious language most of them appeared to have a few words of at least. Mirayle grinned, relieved to see them at ease for once, and stuck her hands in her pockets; a mannerism of her father's, which, according to Lirael, generally signified 'my work here is done'.

"-she's right about the river-"

"-what sort of adversary, though? Would he have a true stronghold, a castle or-"

"-we don't really know enough."

"The necromancer behind this is called Mhor," Mirayle said in answer to the last sentence, which had been directed at her. "I don't know if that's his true name, or if it's an assumed name. His movements are... er, I'm not really sure exactly what he's doing, or thinks he's doing, but I imagine he's besieging Belisaere and the Clayr's Glacier, and as I told you I'm certain he's kidnapped a few young people from the ruling families. Well, not exactly kidnapped them, but he's sent them to your country. I know that he's attacking strong points to weaken the Kingdom. Remember the garrison at Barhedrin Hill? I can't think why," she added, frustrated. "I mean, if the Kingdom is desolate, there will be no point in trying to rule it. And as for trying to kill off Charter bloodlines, which I presume he'll attempt at some time sooner or later to secure his rule, I really don't see why it's worth trying when two of the Royals and an Abhorsen are in Ancelstierre and so unreachable and there are more Clayr than anyone could ever _possibly_ kill off, I'll swear there are thousands- I'm getting off the point. Sorry."

There was a brief pause, and then the Rangers, after a few glances at one another, unanimously decided to discount the social structure of the Old Kingdom.

But the discussion was abruptly cut off. A smell of iron and blood filled the air, and Mirayle began to cough and choke. "What?- How?-" She ran towards the source, hands going instinctively to the bells she still wore, nervous of leaving them to their own devices. On the garden path, a pool of red flame bubbled and boiled. Acrid smoke came off it. The Rangers followed hard on her heels; even Tomas had got up, and had had the presence of mind to draw his sword. Upstairs, Levin smelt the back-of-the-throat taste of Free Magic, and shot to the door and hammered on it, unable to do anything and hampered by his dizziness and sore head.

Mirayle, one hand over her mouth and nose and the other over the bells, which somehow felt restless to her trembling fingers, watched it, dismayed. Her eyes stung and watered. A particularly large globule of fire grew, and rose into the air slowly, spitting burning sparks, until it was at Mirayle's eye-level; a cord of fire connected it to the pool.

"Good day," came the greeting from inside the fire, and the smell of Free Magic and the smoke intensified. The voice crackled, like a badly-behaved hearthfire waiting to do mischief. It was amused, and some of the Rangers with more acute ears heard a faint accent that shocked them, faint but unmistakable. Mirayle choked and gasped for air.

"Go away, damn you to hell," she managed.

Mhor laughed, in seemingly genuine amusement at her epithet, or perhaps he was just enjoying the situation. "A polite greeting from such a fine lady, Mirayle Lirael's daughter. It may interest you to know that I'm using the blood of a delightful gentleman who owned a good deal of land near here to perform this spell... I believe he had some little relation to your family, very distant, I'm sure, but enough. He and his men fought so hard to save his lovely wife and her charming children, but they must needs bow to greater power, and in the end they did."

"You're disgusting and sick in the mind," Mirayle declared. _Saraneth_. Her fingers hovered over the bell, and she forced them to be steady.

"Mm," came Mhor's response, and the fireball began to move, starting a slow circle of Mirayle. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, watching it like a deer a python. "Did you know that it was your very own father's presence here that opened this place up to Free Magic? Nicholas Sayre is riddled with it, from head to heart, and where he goes more may follow."

"You're... oh, God, words fail me." Mirayle drew the bell and held it ready. The wood handle was solid in her hand. "Say what you spent all that energy to say and be gone."

Again, he laughed; Mirayle could not tear her eyes from the moving fireball. "Oh, I had not much to say... I simply wished to get your measure and test my strength. You're not much, are you, Lirael's daughter, least of an old line? Your famous mother would have banished me long since; your aunt would have hunted down and slain me by now. And yet they have failed: I have trapped them, and you are all that is left. Will you fight me? Will you win or lose? Die or live?" Despite the crackle the spell gave his voice, he managed to make it seem smooth and completely reasonable, draining Mirayle's confidence. The fireball's coils tightened around her, and he played for yet more time- just a little longer, and she would not be able to escape a horrific death in the fire of Free Magic. Though he had hoped she would fight harder, expediency was not to be discounted He had one more card left to put on the table; something he had heard a long time ago- a fragment of Ancelstierran verse which had stuck in his head. "Play up, play up, and play-"

Tomas had had enough of watching uselessly while an unknown magician entrapped the girl with poisonous words that crept under his skin too. He cut the cord of fire, temporarily disrupting the spell and breaking its hold on Mirayle. Her hand jerked into action of a sudden, ringing Saraneth in a relentless circle, the requisite page from the _Book of the Dead _('_Breaking Spells Based On Misuse Of Blood_') shining in her mind. "I haven't time for your words," she announced with all the courage she had left, though it had been drained by Mhor's words about being least of an old line and her mother and aunt 'trapped'. Anger grew in her voice. "And hear this, Mhor, who thinks he knows so much of me- I promise you, for everything you have done and you would do to my family _I will see you burn!_"

She spoke only just in time: the fire had been shrivelling and shrinking since she had begun ringing the bell, and as she screamed the last words it exploded in a burst of eye-burning blue light- and was gone, with nothing but a distinct stench of bitter smoke and a sooty mark to prove it had been there.

Mirayle stilled the bell and put it away. Mechanically, Mhor's words weighing on her, she went to pick up a bucket from the garden shed, fetched freezing water from the river and dashed it over the place where the fire had been. Then she put the bucket down, and looked at the Rangers. "Well?" she said, and the steadiness of her own voice surprised her.

Tomas said nothing, but sheathed his sword. One of the men- Mirayle thought she recognised the one who had, so long ago, spoken out in the wood at Wyverley –glanced at him quickly, and then when he received an infinitesimal nod spoke. "Was that... true, what he said about... your father?"

Mirayle shook her head. _Interesting_, she thought, _that they should look to him now. I suppose they saw him competent when he sliced the fire_. "No. Free Magic's been in this house often and often; the Abhorsens used to have a Free Magic being in their service, and there's a Bright Shiner living somewhere down in the depths way below the cellars, which is nothing but Free Magic. She's Astarael." She touched the bell in question. "The Weeper. My mother doesn't like to talk about her, but Mogget told me just to make mischief when I was quite young and I've had nightmares about her ever since. So really, the amount the Destroyer sort of... left behind after using my father as a puppet is hardly any compared to that. It's nothing."

"Thank you for explaining," the Ranger said, looking daunted by the idea of the Weeper roaming at large somewhere beneath his feet.

Tomas began to move away, quietly. The Rangers followed his lead. "Wait- wait a moment," Mirayle called. He stopped and turned.

"I just wanted to ask about your sword," she said. "It cut through Free Magic, but I don't see anything of the Charter on it, and if there was Free Magic to it I would have noticed by now. Is there anything special about it?"

"Not to my knowledge, save good workmanship," the Captain answered. "It has been in my family for some time."

"May I see?" Mirayle asked. After a moment's consideration, he passed it to her. It was a heavier sword than she liked, but a good one; well-used, well-looked after, and true steel. Mirayle supposed that it might have had an effect on the fire because it was so far from magic; it was plain enough that there was no magic, Charter or Free, wherever the Rangers had come from. She hefted it, feeling the weight, and then handed it back. "That's a very good sword."

"It is," was the neutral reply. Mirayle gave up on making conversation, nodded, and turned briskly to go into the house and check on Levin.

* * *

Mirayle dissolved the spell on Levin's door, and opened it. She found him sitting on the end of the bed, glaring furiously at her.

"Don't look like that," Mirayle said, somewhat confused. "What is the matter with you? You look..." she searched for a word- "well. Ferocious."

"Call me that if you want," he said through gritted teeth, slitted eyes and half-bared teeth causing him to form an alarming resemblance to an angry Mogget, "I can think of many, many worse things to call you."

Mirayle stopped, and mentally rewound and played back the conversation and prior events in her head, like the moving-pictures operator at the cinema house in Wyverley testing a reel of film. "What did I do?" she enquired, confused.

He got to his feet, and advanced on her. "I am supposed to be looking after_ you_. You are _not _supposed to leave me locked in an upstairs bedroom while you confront an evil sorceror with ten strangers for back-up!"

"Mhor wasn't actually in the garden," Mirayle said, in an attempt to clear matters up. Levin had fallen prey to the temptation to stab an index finger in Mirayle's direction to emphasise his points, and the stabs had been dangerously 

close to her nose. "It was just a sort of message-ball-fire-thingywhatsit. Besides, you're as much a stranger as any of them and I think I have a pretty good idea of what sort of hot water I've got into by now. Should I just sit back and let the grown-ups do the work for me? There's no-one left for me to run to, is there? For God's sake, Levin. Please let me stand on my own two feet without _homilies_, since I have to try. It's not fair!"

"Nothing's fair," Levin said severely, though he let the pointing finger drop; possibly he realised that he was not being fair, his accusations fueled by anger at himself for not being ready for anything. "Next time, let me out first."

"There won't be a next time till I'm properly armed," Mirayle said determinedly. "You may say what you like about my lack of ability as an Abhorsen, but you surely can't think of any insults over my swordsmanship."

"Not that spring to mind," Levin said, going down fighting although his temper was fast leaking away- he had always been very susceptible to a reasonable argument, and Mirayle's had been reasonable enough to strip paint.

She smiled, recognising with relief the signs of a receding quick-burning temper. "I'd hope not. Look, I hate to nag, but you really shouldn't be up. We have to leave tomorrow; I'm no longer convinced this place is safe anymore." Her mouth tightened; saying it made it real to her, and she didn't like it. Levin directed a questioning glance at her. She shook her head.

"Oh, it's nothing; I'm just so used to thinking of this place as safe. I suppose... the wards are hundreds of years old. It doesn't matter." Mirayle dragged her mind away from the problem, and applied it instead to that of Levin's recovery. He looked steady enough now, but she wasn't convinced: there had been that time when Filris had seemed fine a few minutes after a particularly shattering vision, but had then fainted coming down the stairs and cracked her head on the banister, necessitating a visit to Bain General Hospital. She pushed his shoulder gently. "Go on. Go and rest. I don't actually think I can force you to stay behind easily, but a girl can try, unless you get some more sleep. I promise to call you if an emergency happens."

He shot her an irritated glance. (_Temper not completely gone then_, she thought.) "I'm going."

"Excellent. Knew I could rely on you." Before he could say anything, she was out the door.

* * *

Mirayle walked back to the Rangers, not hurrying overmuch; the problems with the House's security were upsetting her more deeply than she'd admitted.

"What was he talking about at the end?" a Ranger she hadn't spoken to before with a narrow, clever face asked, the very instant she returned. It had evidently been preying on his mind.

Mirayle blinked, confused. "Who?"

"The fire-voice," her questioner said patiently. The other Rangers, even Tomas, were listening attentively: clearly this was something that had caught the collective imagination. "'Play up, play up, and play'?..."

"Oh." Mirayle frowned. "Yes, I noticed that. It's a piece of verse from a poem called Vitae Lamp-something – _Vitae Lampada_, that's it. I never made sense of it, half's about a cricket match, the other about a military rout- anyway that phrase's from the last few lines of both of the poem's two verses. 'But his captain's hand on his shoulder smote/Play up, play up, and play the game'. That's the end of the first verse, the cricket-match one. 'But a schoolboy's voice rallies the ranks/Play up, play up and play the game'. Well. I could be wrong: it's been so long since I last heard it. But what a strange thing for him to quote- and at me of all people. I wonder what he can have meant by it. I wonder where he can have heard it. "

* * *

_Know your enemy_, a man who might have been King of the Easterlings thought to himself, a few years before Mirayle was born.

Of course, what Mhor was doing now stretched that point a little. He was quite sure that no general would ever have chosen to watch the young Abhorsen-in-Waiting, her new golden hand glittering in the warm sunlight, Prince Sameth's flippant Ancelstierran friend and Prince Sameth himself while they ate lunch near a newly mended Charter stone. They were close enough to the village that it would not be too long a walk to the headman's house when they said goodbye to him, but not too close, so as not to disturb anyone or incur too many stares from the villagers. They were also perfectly assured of their safety: ideal for Mhor's purposes. He was perched in the tree under which the three young people were eating, disguised by the Free Magic glamour he wore- the smell of which was accounted for in Sam, Lirael and Nick's minds by the unavoidable fact that Nick still carried a taint of Free Magic around with him.

"I should go soon," Lirael said, glancing at the sun and at her blue Paperwing. "I promised Ellimere I would be back in time for her ball."

"Duty calls?" Sam said with sympathy, having been forced to attend similar balls by his sister before.

Lirael hesitated. She was, by nature, truthful, and couldn't deny that Ellimere had said that as a (technical) princess she really had to attend.

"You and duty," Nick said with a certain amount of affectionate exasperation, biting into yet another piece of sausage. "I'm sure Ellimere won't mind if you miss it," he added through the sausage, and then swallowed. "You can stay a while longer?" Nick and Lirael had not seen much of each other recently; what with Lirael's duties as Abhorsen-in-Waiting and Nick's lessons in Charter magic and helping Sameth with his many projects, including mending Charter stones, they seemed to be in the same places sadly infrequently.

"I doubt it," Lirael answered, at the same time that Sam spotted that there was no more sausage left and said "Nick, you gannet, have you eaten _all _the sausage?"

Nick looked disappointed and didn't heed Sam.

"I don't see what all the fuss is about. We're going too," Sam informed the world at large, and fished about in his pack, hoping for apples since there was no more sausage left. "Nick, what did you do with the apples?"

"You bottomless pit, Sam, you got them out earlier-" an apple struck the prince squarely on the back of the head- "and _what do you mean_ we're going and _why did you not tell me this before_?"

"Oh- Ellimere buttonholed me early this morning, when we were just going out. Said we had to be there this time- one ball missed could happen to anyone, two balls missed was careless, but three balls missed was Rude and Careless and she Wasn't Having It. Capital letters and all. Besides, the Ancelstierran Scouts and suchlike are going to be there. Duty calls," Sameth repeated, munching an apple. Mending Charter stones invariably made him hungry.

Nick laughed and rolled his eyes. "I take it back, Lirael. It's not just you and duty, it's your entire family and duty. How does it go? 'But his captain's hand on his shoulder smote'-"

"-'play up, play up, and play the game'," Sam finished. "Or something like that. That's about _cricket_, Nick."

"It's about duty," Nick said with dignity, spoiling the effect of his pompous tone by grinning at Lirael, "and stepping up to do your duty by your country and all that." Sam threw the apple core at him, and he ducked.

_Duty_, Mhor thought. _If that is a motive for their actions, it could be useful_.

So he remembered it- even the bit of poetry.

* * *

In the present, the least senior Ranger looked around at his colleagues, who were all considering the problem of disposing of Mhor. Mirayle knew the sendings had packed for her, but she had gone to check on the packing anyway, so was not present: she was in her room, holding the oddly clammy _Book of the Dead_ while she debated whether or not to pack it and a knot of anxiety writhed in her stomach. "I don't understand," he said. "If the necromancer is treating this like a game, why doesn't she challenge him?"


	22. A Cousin

**A/N:** _One:_ It's been a long time, and I apologise, but life is not very calm right now. Exams are plummeting down on me like rain in England. _Two:_ This chapter is, give or take a couple of hundred words, seven thousand words and fifteen pages long. Stinger, I blame you. It was you who told me my chapters needed lengthening! _Three:_ This chapter does not contain a lot about Mirayle. I needed to fill a couple of plotholes, introduce a secondary character who will, along with Sal, be watching from Ancelstierre, explain a little of what happens to Aletta and Sam, and elaborate on Sal's feelings. This all took an unexpected number of words; I just hope you like it. _Four:_ This is my first time trying to write LOTR characters, and I am by no means sure of the characterisation. Please be kind.

That said, **_please read and review!_**

**Disclaimer:** See previous.

* * *

It was not long after Mirayle's semi-scandalous vanishment from Wyverley College that Sal Radcliffe was invited to take tea with the Headmistress.

Everyone knew why, of course; it was about Mirayle. At least everyone who found out at the time of the summons, which was delivered by a wide-eyed first-former in the form of an elegantly written note, and then it sort of spread. The dormitory tales often featured Sabriel or Ellie or Ellimere's daughter Kenesse's exploits, and everyone knew at least the bare facts of Kerrigor's appearance from across the Wall. When Mirayle, Sabriel's niece, left in suspicious circumstances, first delivering a rather frightening and incomprehensible speech to half the school, and wasn't heard of for days, and then the girl's best friend was summoned to tea with the Headmistress- well, then. It hardly took a genius, did it? It must have something to do with Mirayle.

But no-one, not even Sal, had any idea what she was going to be told, or asked. Despite this, everyone wanted to know. "Maybe she's going to tell you when Mirayle's coming back?" Janet Farley suggested.

Sal said nothing. The note was tucked into her pocket, requesting Miss Radcliffe's company at five o'clock the next day, after lessons, and she was suddenly feeling rather guilty. Mirayle had frequently impressed on her the dangers of the Kingdom, particularly the border with the Kingdom, and come to think of it Sal didn't like the idea that Mirayle might be running around there more or less on her own. It was dangerous, surely?

"Maybe she's going to tell you if Mirayle's coming back," Lucy Smith corrected, and gave Sal a serious look that said she completely understood the silly predicament Mirayle had got herself into. Which she didn't. Even Sal recognised that.

"Oh do shut up, Lucy," Sal snapped. "Anyone would think you didn't want Mirayle to come back!"

"I'm not so sure that I do," Lucy said gravely, taking a rather high moral tone and getting under the skin of all present. "After all, she _is_ from the Old Kingdom and they say that blood will out, though she seemed well enough only before half term. I've heard terrible tales-"

But she got no further, for Sal flew across the room and slapped her hard, guilt giving her a rush of protectiveness towards absent Mirayle. "You nasty, spiteful girl, Lucy Smith! Anyone would think that you_ wanted_ Mirayle dead!"

Sal played tennis with enthusiasm and skill, and had a very strong right wrist. Lucy gaped at her, a bright red mark forming on her cheek and tears sprung to her eyes, and exclamations came from the other girls. Some were concern for Lucy, others shock. "No, that can't be right!" "Not Mirayle!" "Oh, no!"

"You may well stare," Sal said through clenched teeth. "It is true, you know, the Kingdom's awfully dangerous and I don't like to think what sort of trouble Mirayle might be in. You shouldn't say things like that, Lucy, it's very rude, and though I'd be the _last_ to carry tales, believe me,_ if I thought you really meant what you said_-"

"No!" Lucy agreed hastily. "Of course I didn't mean to say that! What a horrible thought. It couldn't... it couldn't be right. It couldn't possibly be true. Not_ that_."

"It might be," Sal said defiantly, angrily. "Think about that, why don't you?" And she stalked off, to feel bitingly, tearingly guilty all on her own.

* * *

The Headmistress's office was a fairly nice place. There was some lovely panelling, an impressive desk, a small coffee-table, and lots of beautifully bound books. There were also a couple of capacious and extraordinarily plush armchairs for visitors. Sal could feel herself sink slightly as she sat down in one.

Today's audience was apparently an informal one. Sal was dressed in full neat uniform, clean shirt, skirt, tie, blazer and all, but she was sitting facing the coffee-table, not the desk, and Mrs. Greene was bustling around with an elegant-looking teapot. "Tea, Sally?"

That was another cue to the meeting's tone, Sal thought, the use of 'Sally' rather than 'Miss Radcliffe'. The name jarred after so many years of not using it, and Sal wondered if Mrs. Greene had ever known about the change from 'Sally-Ann' to 'Sal'. However, Sal allowed, Mrs. Greene was a comfortable person who disliked shocks, and it was quite possible that Mirayle's leaving had seriously shaken her, even to the point of forgetting Sal's name. "Yes please, Mrs. Greene. Shall I fetch the sugar?"

"No, no- it's quite all right." Mrs. Greene seized the sugar pot. "One or two?"

"Er- two, please," Sal replied politely, wondering if she'd ever seen Mrs. Greene this flustered before. She wondered if the older woman was worrying about Mirayle. Sal certainly was- it had been what, two days? Sal wasn't even sure –and Lucy had put something uncomfortable into Sal's mind: what if Mirayle really didn't come back? _I should have thought of this before_, Sal thought, feeling sick, Charter mark aching just as Mirayle had said hers was only a short time ago. _Why did I let her go? Why did I encourage her to go?_

_Because it was right_, the part of her that had paid most attention when Mirayle spoke about the Old Kingdom told her. _Because it's what she does- what she's going to do. When she's older. When you're at university, Mirayle will be killing things and maybe being killed, now isn't that a cheerful thought-_

"Sally? Sally!" Mrs. Greene was proffering a teacup and saucer. The teacup contained extremely milky tea with two sugars. The saucer contained a ginger biscuit.

"Thank you, Mrs. Greene," Sal said, and took the teacup. She loathed ginger biscuits. Mirayle loved them.

Mrs. Greene sat down in the chair opposite Sal's. They were separated by the coffee table. She stirred her tea. Then chose a ginger biscuit. Nibbled at it. Put it down again, as if she was undecided. Put another spoonful of sugar in her tea.

Sal sipped her tea politely, and watched. She left the ginger biscuit alone- she was feeling a little queasy, and had no wish to be sick over Mrs. Greene's teapot. She thought that, just perhaps, Mrs. Greene was not a very good leader for the school in times of trouble, and flicked a glance at the keyhole of the door. She couldn't hear anything, but that didn't mean someone wasn't eavesdropping.

"Sally, I understand that you w- are Mirayle's best friend." Past tense- Sal's stomach lurched. "I would like to ask if you have any idea where she has gone. I thought that she would come back- she can be an impulsive child, as I imagine you know well –but she has not. It is your duty to your friend to tell me, if you have any idea, any idea at all where she might be."

"I know exactly where she is." Sal stared at her tea and the untouched biscuit. "She's across the Wall."

"Is that true?"

"Where else would she go, Mrs. Greene? Where in Ancelstierre would she go? It's not her home." Sal sipped at her tea again.

"She might go to her sister," the Headmistress tried, but Sal shook her head.

She searched for the right words. "Susellen... gave up the bells. She gave them to Mirayle. Mirayle's not happy about it. I don't know if- I don't think forgive is the right word- but Mirayle's not happy."

"Bells?" Mrs. Greene inquired. It was all too plain that she was thinking of the sort of bells people rang in churches, and equally plain that she wasn't well-informed on what ought to have been Susellen's future job.

Sal quailed at explaining it. Mirayle had never told her much about it, anyway. "It's something to do with Mirayle's people in the Old Kingdom, something they have to do." A thought occurred to her. "Doesn't she have cousins in the school? Do they know she's... gone, yet?"

Mrs. Greene pulled herself together. This was a problem she could deal with. "Yes, she does. Two, neither of whom were present in the school when Mirayle left. The younger is in the Lower Third, which is probably why you do not know her that well- a friendly girl named Aletta with brown curly hair and grey eyes. Her father is Prince Sameth. The elder is only in the year below you: Princess Idica. You must know her."

"Yes. Dica. She doesn't spend much time with Mirayle- always very quiet. She's in the Choral Scholars, isn't she? Singing in Corvere? That would be why she wasn't here. And Mirayle mentioned something when she came back from the hols about Aletta having caught the 'flu from her brother, who caught it at Somersby, I think."

"Yes," Mrs. Greene confirmed. "Her father sent a telegram to say he would keep her in Ancelstierre until she was not contagious and well enough to travel. Idica is a Choral Scholar, you are quite right."

Sal followed the train of thought, and realised something. She looked up and caught Mrs. Greene's eye. "Mrs. Greene, Idica doesn't know Mirayle's gone."

Mrs. Greene fidgeted for a moment. "No, she doesn't."

As Sal thought. Mrs. Greene could have telephoned to Corvere to warn Idica, or to ask Idica for advice on where Mirayle might have gone, but she hadn't. Sal wondered why for a moment, and decided the problem must lie with Idica.

Idica, 'Dica', was the younger of Ellimere's two daughters and the youngest of the four Royal children at fifteen. She played badminton well and hockey competitively, was well-behaved, quiet and kind enough and loved music of all types. Smoke or a lot of exercise gave her asthma. The choirmistress adored her, because she had a clear, true soprano voice and always went to choir rehearsals. She was of middling height, kept her black hair brushed neatly back from her face, and had brown eyes. She would have passed easily for an Ancelstierran if she hadn't possessed a Charter mark and weren't good at Charter magic, and she kept herself to herself.

Running over these simple facts, Sal couldn't see what intimidated Mrs. Greene. That was because Sal had met Dica briefly through Mirayle, and Dica showed more warmth towards her family, her family's friends and the two or three close friends she had than she did to anyone else. She had been unfortunate enough to have an elder sister who consistently outshone her at everything but music, had a carefree charm and glamour and almost never failed to win people over. Dica was calm and courteous, listened more than she spoke, and frightened the easily daunted by being terrifyingly self-possessed and controlled. It was unfortunate that Mrs. Greene was among the easily daunted.

Sal couldn't guess all this, of course- but she was adept enough at reading faces to know that Mrs. Greene was suddenly very uncomfortable. Speaking to Idica, telling the princess that Mirayle had gone, would make Mrs. Greene feel like she'd failed in her duty. Both Sal and Mrs. Greene could both envision the calm expression, as if Idica were disappointed in Mrs. Greene. And Mrs. Greene couldn't face that. She couldn't even face that over the telephone.

"You would perhaps like- ow!" Her Charter mark had stabbed painfully, and a headache was throbbing at her temples. She imagined that she could feel the veins thumping. This was just how Mirayle had been, not long before she left. Sal's quick mind moved up a gear as Mrs. Greene demanded to know if she was all right. Mrs. Greene must not know that she was displaying the same symptoms as Mirayle had before leaving, not if Sal needed to be able to help Idica- and, Sal thought, sickened, she might. Kerrigor- or Corrugate- or whatever it had been- he had crossed the Wall, and so had something that Mirayle had never talked about, but which had left a huge hole in the ground at Forwin Mill. Idica might need someone who believed in the 

Kingdom, someone with a little more practice at Charter Magic than most Ancelstierrans.

A psychologist, a new breed of doctor growing popular in Corvere (characterised by leather sofas, soothing pot plants and earnest expressions) might have explained that Sal was grasping at some role she might play to repay Mirayle for the day or so in which she'd not understood the danger Mirayle had walked into, wide-eyed and willing. However, Sal was not inclined to self-examination, and Mrs. Greene was not, happily, in possession of all the facts.

"Yes, I'm fine, Mrs. Greene. A slight headache, that's all." Sal offered her a small social smile which said 'but thank you for asking', and the woman relaxed. Sal fought the nausea rising, aware that in a few moments if she wasn't going to be sick over the coffee-table she would have to flee. "I was going to ask if you wished me to speak to Idica? I'm sure you must have been thinking exactly as I was that she might be happier to hear from someone who knows her at least a little..."

"An excellent idea, Sally," Mrs. Greene approved, heartily glad that the girl had thought of it herself. "Now, I'm sure you have lessons to get to... but do get something for that headache, child, it sounded positively terrible."

"Thank you so much for the tea and biscuit, Mrs. Greene," Sal said quickly, with a slightly strained smile and a bob. She left, sprinted to the nearest bathroom and was sick.

* * *

The Wyverley College Choral Scholars were the best of the school's singers, siphoned off from the choir and bullied, encouraged, or bribed to join by Miss Faber, who was best described as querulous. She was also short, and a committed favouritist: every single Choral Scholar, while assured in an absent-minded fashion by Miss Faber that they were very good, was aware that there were a few extremely talented singers who Miss Faber favoured. They consisted of Idica, a soprano, Kathleen, a mezzo-soprano and Harriet and Charlott, contraltos, and they were sitting in four seats facing each other in a train which was taking the Choral Scholars back to Wyverley. Or rather, Harriet had given up her seat to Miss Faber and gone to gossip with closer friends, Miss Faber was discussing the Choral Scholars' performances earnestly with Charlott, Kathleen was reading peacefully, and Idica... was staring out of the window. And feeling just a little bit sick.

Idica was, physically speaking, a robust girl, not prone to motion sickness of any type or the sort of imagination that leaps to ridiculous conclusions. She had felt nothing like Sal's or Mirayle's sharp headaches, but as she came closer to the Wall she began to feel nauseous, and her head started to thump. She was not close enough to the Wall to cast a healing spell, which was a nuisance, and she could summon a vivid picture of Miss Faber faced with an ill schoolgirl (fluttering, and very much wanting to know what she had done to deserve such a thing). Kathleen would be a blessing, if a touch on the mothering side, but Miss Faber more querulous than normal would be iniquitous. So Idica closed her eyes, and thought of more pleasant things.

She jolted awake when the train came in to Bain and Harriet poked her mercilessly in the kidneys. "C'mon, get up, Dica! Get up get up get up!"

Idica got up, retrieved her small suitcase from the luggage rack and Kathleen's, handing it to the older girl, who smiled and thanked her gracefully, and then filed off the train with the others, sticking close to Miss Faber, who was fluttering and being querulous. Idica seized a map that threatened to fly off and stuffed it back into Miss Faber's bag.

"Where is the 'bus? I really do not understand why such a dreadful driver should have been appointed to me, he is never where he is supposed to be and I am sure I do not know why-"

"It is quite all right, Miss Faber," Kathleen shouted, raising her serene voice to cope with the crowds. "See- it's there."

"Ah!" Miss Faber cried in an enlightened tone of voice. Idica, elbowing, kicking and pushing her way through the hurrying crowd, trying not to be annoyed by the fact that most of what was at her eye-level was variations on the theme of a navy suit, wondered what on earth she would do with Miss Faber when Kathleen left the school. She glanced over her shoulder; the orderly crocodile of Wyverley College students was making its way through the rush-hour crowd on the busy platform. Plaits flew, straw boaters sat at odd angles, blazers were untied and ties were all over the place, but that was the natural consequence of having a woman like Miss Faber in charge, because Miss Faber expected life to order itself around her and where teenaged girls were concerned it did not. Idica observed a tiny fourth-former deliver a vicious kick to the ankles of a particularly large and inattentive businessman, slid through the gap between two would-be travellers and found herself out of the station. She made her way to the 'bus, and got on. Kathleen had already sat down and returned to her book.

"Is everyone all right?" the placid sixth-former asked as Idica slid into the seat next to her.

Idica thought for a moment, shrugged, then nodded. "As far as I could see."

Kathleen smiled and yawned, covering her mouth genteelly. Other students began to trickle in. Miss Faber was ticking them off on a list. "In a state of disarray, I imagine. Althea Harbottle, please do something with your tie. Preferably, straighten it. Idica, you are looking rather pale. Is something the matter?"

"What, paler than normal? No, nothing's wrong. I just feel a bit peculiar. I may have motion sickness."

Kathleen dispensed a few platitudes and suggestions of sovereign remedies. Idica paid little attention. The older girl went back to her book.

The ride back to Wyverley was passed in silence by Kathleen and Idica, while other girls laughed and cheered and sang songs, impervious to Miss Faber's attempts to quiet them. As they reached the school, however, they began to settle down and surreptitiously tuck in shirts, knock the dents out of hats and retie ties. Mrs. Greene took quite a hard line on uniform.

Idica looked at the sky. In the distance, she could see dusk falling on the other side of the Wall, and suddenly she desperately wished she was at home, and knew something was a bit... off. She knew it even more when she didn't see Mirayle's tall figure, graceless in the Ancelstierran uniform and a head taller than most of the school, at dinner.

She decided something was very wrong when Sal Radcliffe, Mirayle's best friend, appeared in her dorm just before lights-out and asked if she could have a word with Idica.

The Matron, who was lecturing Yveta Riley on manners, glanced at Sal, and hesitated.

"Mrs. Greene asked me to," Sal said simply. She was oddly sombre, still dressed in full school uniform with her Upper Fifth Prefect's badge pinned neatly on. Idica got up from where she had perched on her bed with a book, fished her slippers out from underneath her bed, and looked at Matron. The woman gave a grudging nod.

Idica slipped her slippers on, and padded out of the dormitory to join Sal in the lighted corridor. "We're going to the Library," Sal told her briefly. "I don't want any of this heard. There's rumour enough already."

They made an odd pair walking down the corridor, Sal's smart shoes tapping on the floor and Idica's soft slippers making no sound at all; one wearing a white nightgown, the other dressed in the dark blue uniform. Idica was shorter than Sal.

They reached the library, and Sal pulled the keys to the library door- it was locked –from her blazer pocket and unlocked it. She pushed the door open, and Idica slipped in ahead of her.

The younger girl didn't make for the light-switch, knowing that the wind blew strongly from the north tonight and they would not turn on, but flitted ahead through the library with a Charter light to guide her. She looked eerie, a dark-haired white-clad ghost vanishing into the shadowy rows of bookshelves, towards the fireplace and armchairs around it at the end of the room. Sal lingered by the door for a moment, conjuring her own light rather more effortfully, and then gently closed the door and followed.

By the time she reached Idica, the girl already had a Charter fire dancing merrily and apparently without taking in any fuel in the fireplace, and was sitting with her feet curled neatly under her in one of the armchairs. Sal took a seat in the armchair opposite. "Mirayle's gone," she stated baldly.

Idica sat up very straight, and spat out her plait, the end of which she'd been chewing. "To the Kingdom?"

"Yes. Susellen's engaged to an Ancelstierran, and she's given Mirayle the bells."

There was silence.

"She can't do that," Idica said quietly. "That's not possible. That's never even been attempted."

"It's done. Mirayle's gone, she's across the Wall by now. And that's not all," Sal informed Idica grimly, and proceeded to tell her all about the Rangers.

Idica tapped her fingers on the side of the armchair and thought. Then she looked up, frowning, as a thread of cold air wound through the library. "Is there a breeze in here?"

Sal got up. "Yes. Someone's left a window open."

"Where? Which one?" Both girls started to search for the open window, panicked. You didn't leave doors or windows open here, not so close to the Wall, not at night, and especially not when the wind blew from the north.

Sal found it, and Idica came to stand behind her. It was a window facing the Wall; they could see a darker darkness, a more advanced night, where the Wall must be. The cold breeze flooded in. Idica sniffed the air. "Can you smell that?"

"Smell what?"

"Metal. Metal, blood, and rain on the wind." A pause, in which they both stared out the window.

"Sal?" Idica said at last.

"Yes?"

"_Close the window_."

* * *

Aletta sniffled and buried her face in the thick, too-large woolly jumper she'd changed into, so that only her eyes, nose and the blue woolly cap covering her wet hair were visible above its red collar. "This is not funny."

"It stopped being _funny _some time ago, Sameth's child," Mogget sighed. They were both sitting in the lee of the _Lady Elen_'s small cabin while Sam steered the boat, the cat curled up next to the girl. "Really, sometimes I despair. Your father shows some intelligence occasionally, and your mother was a bright girl, but you, my dear, are an utter recessive, recalling generations of overly cheerful Royal children-"

"Stow it, Mogget," Sam ordered, as Mogget's voice rose and the older child began to catch the words. Mogget paused with his mouth open, rolled his eyes and shut it with a snap. Aletta giggled shakily.

"Look, Mogget," she whispered, "can't you make... them go away?" A flicker of her eyes encompassed the other boat, sheperding them towards unknown judgement by the 'Lord and Lady', whichever Lord and Lady they happened to be.

"Yes, I can," Mogget said, with heavy patience, "but not without killing them. I thought I'd explained this."

"Not to me."

"And you always require explanations and counter-explanations."

Aletta grinned, and shivered in the wind. Even though they were sitting away from it, it was still chilly and the occasional breeze hit them. Mogget watched her sharply. It was not long since she had recovered from the flu, and even if she was a robust child he didn't like that she was now sitting out in the cold and damp. "Pick me up and go and ask young Sameth where we're going," he ordered. Obligingly, Aletta got to her feet, picked up the cat- he emanated warmth –and walked back across the deck to Sam.

"Sam, where're we going?"

"I don't know," the boy answered through gritted teeth. Sam wasn't quick-tempered, but he had disliked the river guards' high-handed treatment of him and was furious with them for frightening Aletta. "They said just to follow them, and if you take a look at the stern of their boat-"

Aletta did. "There's an archer."

"Yes. Quite. If I try and make a break for it –though how I'm not sure- he'll shoot me."

"Sensible," Mogget remarked acidly. Neither Aletta nor Sam paid any attention.

The girl took a moment to digest this. "Rude of him."

"Very."

"Shall I ask him why he's being so rude?"

"Please don't. It probably won't help." Sam glanced at his sister. "Charter preserve me, Aletta, what am I thinking? You must still be soaked. For God's sake get down into the cabin and sleep in one of the bunks. Try and dry your hair off with the towel Dad keeps there for emergencies, or something. Can't have you getting sick again."

"Certainly not," Mogget said crisply, when Aletta looked like protesting that she wanted to stay on deck with her brother and see where she was. "I vividly recall your return at the beginning of the half-term, sneezing and coughing and as pale as paste."

Aletta underlined his point by coughing. The cat recoiled, scrabbled at Aletta's jumper to keep himself balanced, and hissed. "Will you show a little consideration?"

"No," Aletta mumbled in a deeply obstinate tone, but went into the cabin anyway, and towelled her hair clumsily until it was only damp. Then she dragged off her jumper and the cap, flung them onto the floor, climbed into a bunk and curled up, vanishing into the blanket.

Mogget looked at her, and it suddenly occurred to him that it might be no bad thing if he was there to guard her. Far be it from Yrael, who had built up long centuries of hatred against this girl's ancestors, to protect her, but Mogget recalled a red day of death, pain and destruction, in which he made an unbelievable choice, and in which Aletta's father freed him- completely, and without caveats. He recalled how fond Sam was of his children, and he remembered how defenceless a child of ten could be. And he decided that, just as a favour to Sam, it might be no bad thing if he sat watch over Aletta.

The cat leapt lightly up to where Aletta had curled herself into the blankets, and settled. "Don't wriggle, don't toss, and don't push me off," he ordered.

"Mm," came Aletta's voice, and a clumsy hand reached out and stroked his head.

* * *

The reaction to the least senior Ranger's idea for Mirayle to challenge Mhor was instant and condemning. "Don't be a fool."

"I suppose we all recall how well most other challenges to such evil have gone!"

"What makes you think that would work?"

"What makes who think what would work and why?" Mirayle demanded, having finished her packing –including the Book of the Dead- come back downstairs again, and stumbled straight into a cauldron of calumny.

Tomas had deigned to retrieve his nose from his reading matter to join in the censure, and he indicated the culprit with a wave of his hand. "There has been a suggestion that you ought to challenge this... Mhor. I believe the idea would be to draw him out."

Mirayle thought about it. And then she thought about it some more. And then she sat down, and said, in a calm sort of way, "You know, that's not such a bad idea."

There was a stunned silence.

"No, I mean that," Mirayle said. "He's playing with my family, and going on what he's said we've all done exactly as he thought we would. He wants someone to play back."

"You can't go on what he's said," Tomas pointed out. "He's an enemy. He may be tricking you."

"It's the best idea anyone has, let's face it. And..." she hesitated. This was just a thought, and she wasn't sure if it would work. "... I think... it might be possible to find out a little more about the situation here. Only a little, and not for certain. And it all depends on whether he's managed to get angry at me again."

There was some more stunned silence. Mirayle hastened to elaborate, embarrassed. "Levin's a seer. He's of the Clayr. They're _all _seers. He was knocked unconscious because he saw a lot at once; if he's anything like Filris, that's my sister, the middle one, he gets lots of little visions at the same time. The difference between him and Filris is that he sees the future, and he sees proper visions, proper scenes, while Filris's visions could be quite literally anything. Past, present or future. She doesn't know. Levin might have seen something to do with the Kingdom. That's might. It's not certain." She paused, and glanced around. They were all still silent, and she was pretty sure they were thinking of her as a silly amateur right now. She cleared her throat, and pointed at Tomas's sword. "But we can't do anything about it now, because he's asleep, so let's leave this discussion for a while. It's not helping us. You're a good swordsman, captain, aren't you?"

The captain looked at her for a moment. Mirayle got the distinct impression that she'd badly understated the case, and he was offended. "Yes."

"Since we have time on our hands- do you want a match?"

No-one said anything. Most of the Rangers were thinking that the girl was mad- she surely couldn't be good enough to hold her own against the captain, who had years more experience and practice and a lot of natural aptitude behind him. Mirayle went pink. "What? Anyone would think I was a terrible swordswoman and you all knew it. It's really the only thing I _can_ do."

"The captain is probably better than you are," Emrys said. He was least inclined to look on Mirayle as a rather frightening, abrupt oddity.

"So? If you don't practice with people who are better than you then you never get better, and I want to get better. You don't stop learning, my uncle taught me that. There's always something new to learn. Anyway, captain, you haven't answered me."

The captain put his book away very carefully and very slowly. "The answer is yes, if you promise not to forfeit in the first few moments."

Mirayle grinned. "Too many opponents who underestimated you, and decided to get out of the match while they still had limbs to get out with?"

Captain Tomas stared at her for a long moment. He was not used to sixteen-year-olds showing so much blatant impudence. Then he nodded slightly.

"I _knew_ it. I'll just be a moment."

Mirayle got up, and ran across the lawn (narrowly avoiding a sending pruning a tree) to fetch them. Every single Ranger who'd had a teenaged sister, cousin or niece could imagine her shooting up the stairs and clattering back down them again. Emrys winced. Well. This was going to be interesting...

* * *

They reached a small private jetty. The boat in front of the _Lady Elen_, which appeared to be nameless, tied up. Unexpectedly helpfully, one of the soldiers gestured to Sam to throw him the _Elen_'s painter, otherwise Sam would have had to wake Aletta to jump across, catch the painter, and tie up. Maybe they'd realised that they'd captured two children and something that almost certainly looked like a cat as far as they were concerned, rather than any great danger to the country they were in. Perhaps they'd guessed that the girl was ill.

Sam did not put much stock in the helpfulness, especially not when a second guard hopped over the gunwale and proceeded to make himself a nuisance. Sam looked rather pointedly at the lack of gangway, and by extension the lack of any polite request to come aboard. "Are you carrying any weapons, any combustibles, any poisons, anything that could be any danger to any person or any thing whatsoever, and if so please inventory."

A customs guard?

Sam himself had not had much experience with those river and sea guards in the Old Kingdom who kept a careful eye on the Kingdom's river- and sea-borne trade, because firstly the elder Sameth tended to handle these things and secondly customs guards were rarely disposed to pick through the Wallmakers' cargo. "We're carrying weapons if you count a couple of knives, mostly for fish-gutting or whittling purposes, poisons if you count paint that might make you a bit sick if you ate it and cleaning spirits in the medicine kits, and combustibles if you count tinder," he said, that being all he could think of off the top of his head, though doubtless there were odd items strewn here and there about the Lady Elen that would be counted more dangerous.

The guard moved past him, saying "In that case I'll need to search the cabin-" only to find that Sameth the younger had inherited his father's height and broad shoulders, and was disinclined to let him pass.

"I'd prefer if you waited," Sam said politely. "My sister is sleeping in the cabin, she's ill, and I'd rather she weren't disturbed."

There was an impasse. The guard had a sneaking suspicion that he didn't want to catch whatever this lad's sister had caught, and that the lad himself wasn't going to move easily. He also had a sneaking suspicion that his superior would be paying extremely close attention to his actions right now.

It was fortunate for Sam, who might have done something rash if the guard had further provoked him, and fortunate for the customs guard, who might then have wound up unconscious on the floor, that a man and woman quietly slipped down the path to the private jetty, doing their level best not to be spotted.

The man was slightly taller than the woman, with dark hair, grey eyes and an inkblot on his hand which refused to wash out. The woman was blonde, blue-eyed, and dressed more practically and plainly than a woman of her station might be expected to. They both wore wedding rings.

Unobserved, they paused a little way away from the path, trying to work out what was happening. "That must be the boy Madril mentioned," Faramir said. His wife made a face.

"I'm more worried about the younger one, the girl. Madril said she'd fallen into the river, and didn't look well." Eowyn looked closer at Sameth. "The boy looks annoyed. Madril would, of course, forget to ask his name and then lumber him with a customs guard."

"Tact is not a virtue Madril suffers from."

They watched for a few more moments, then looked at each other. "If the guard says too many more things out of place, that lad will break his nose," Faramir said. "The guard will file a complaint, and then this will become a matter for paperwork."

Eowyn rolled her eyes. "Let's prevent that, at all costs. You work enough."

The first Sam knew of the watchers was when Faramir tapped on the gunwale. "-Yes, what?" he said irritably, breaking off from a long-winded explanation of how he, his sister and Mogget had come to be in a Gondorian river. (And where was Gondor anyway? He paid attention in Geography, so how had he never heard of it? And why had this person not heard of the Kingdom?) Faramir raised an eyebrow at him, and he flushed. "I'm sorry. Can I help you?"

"If we can come aboard," Eowyn said a little tartly at the insult to her husband, "yes. How's your sister? Sleeping? Is she all right, after that dunking?"

Sam almost leapt a foot in the air. "_How do you know about Aletta_?"

Faramir stepped onto the _Lady Elen_, taking permission as read. "When you employ river-guards and they come to you with a strange story about a teenaged boy, his –apparently- younger sister and a talking white cat, all on an unrecognisable boat in the middle of the river, they do tend to give details to lend colour to the tale. We have not heard names, though. Madril seems to have omitted introductions."

"He has," Sam said grimly. "And if you're employing him you might want to talk to him about letting his subordinates try and hold ten-year-old girls at knifepoint. My sister's asleep in the cabin; she's ill but I don't think she's contagious. And she was getting better until she fell in the river." He remembered something. "I'm Sameth, the Wallmaker's son. Mostly known as Sam." He bowed slightly. "My sister's name is Aletta."

Faramir decided to bypass the fact that he had no idea who the Wallmaker was, and bowed slightly back. "Faramir of Ithilien. My wife, Lady Eowyn-"

"-would like to know if she might go and see your sister," Eowyn interrupted, standing by the door to the cabin.

They could both see Sam consider it. Then he nodded warily. "Please don't wake her."

"I won't unless I have to," Eowyn promised, and slipped inside the cabin.

It was dark. There was a panel of glass at the front of the cabin, so that you could see out if you wanted to, or use the natural light, but it had been curtained. Eowyn found the girl sleeping on one of the lower bunks, only indicated by a smudge of tousled dark hair and a lump in the messy blankets. She reached out a hand to push the girl's hair from her face.

"_Don't move_."

Eowyn let out a shriek, as green eyes snapped open. They glowed, and they had black slit pupils like a cat's in the light. The cat- Eowyn could just make it out in the light its eyes gave off –was white, and it had an unholy toothy smile.

Faramir and Sam both crashed into the cabin at the same moment. "Mogget!" Sam bellowed. "Stop it!" He went to the panel, and pulled the drapes back, so that light flooded in.

"What?" Aletta said feebly, waking to find herself surrounded by people and guarded by Mogget. "M'gget? Sam?"

"It's all right," Sam said tersely to Faramir and Eowyn. "Mogget's just a cat. Well, he's not just a cat, he's a lot of things, but mainly he's a cat that talks. An irritating cat that talks. He's been bound to my family for centuries –he seems to be immortal- only my father freed him about twenty years ago. He just sticks around to make trouble, I think."

"Sam!" Aletta tugged at his tunic. "Who're these people?"

"They're all right, I think," Sam answered his sister, who looked pale and tired. She slid out of the bedclothes, grabbed her still-slightly-damp woolly cap and jammed it over her head, moving to stand beside Sam.

Both Faramir and Eowyn were speechless. "Did Mogget say something nasty?" Aletta asked.

Eowyn nodded, staring at the cat, who was washing a forepaw and looking highly pleased with himself.

"Don't worry about him," the girl said comfortingly. "He likes scaring people a bit, but he's not that horrible really." Then she turned a reproving look on Mogget. "Say sorry, please."

"Why?" the cat complained.

"Because you _frightened_ them."

Mogget remained quiet.

"Say sorry or you can fish for yourself from now on."

Mogget held out for a few more moments, glancing at Sam, but he too wore an uncompromising expression. "I apologise," he said to the strangers, picking his words, "if I have caused you any distress."

The blonde woman nodded, still looking shaken. Aletta took her hand and smiled at her. "He doesn't hurt people any more. He just stays with our family because our family do interesting and stupid things without meaning to, and he likes to be around to say 'I told you so'. You probably just disturbed his nap."

Eowyn looked down at the girl. You can't doubt friendly grey eyes and a smile like Aletta's; she started to relax a little. "If you're sure he's harmless-"

Mogget yawned, and shut his mouth with a snap. "Oh, I'm not harmless."

"Mogget!" Sam snapped. Mogget favoured the company with a lazy grin.

"But I promise to behave. If nothing else, Sameth the elder will have my head if I cause a diplomatic incident."


	23. A Sparring Match

**A/N:** I'm a bad person and I don't update often enough, but at least when I do I don't do it by halves. Once upon a time, this would have been four chapters at least. I blame Stinger for telling me to calm down and write longer chapters. (I also confidently expect him to murder me for Mogget's characterisation here.) _**Please read and review!**_

**Disclaimer:** See before.

* * *

Mirayle clattered back down the stairs, with her swords. She was looking forward to a good match; although she could spar with her Uncle Touchstone, Aunt Sabriel and sometimes if he wasn't too busy Cousin Sam, only Uncle Touchstone would not go easy on her, and most other courtiers who could use a sword were either flourishers, completely useless practically, or disinclined to let the King's niece lose. Mirayle had never wanted to approach one of the guards to spar with her; she felt silly, because after all she was just the Abhorsen's third and undistinguished daughter, and swordplay was a hobby- it would be silly to assume she was good enough to fight them. They oughtn't have to bother with someone who would probably never have to defend herself with a sword.

Well- that's what she'd thought then. Now she was definitely going to have to fight for her life.

But that was no reason, she thought with a burst of optimism and slight rebellion, that she couldn't enjoy one good match now. It would be fun. Mother might not be naturally cheerful, but there was no reason not to smile, just because you were going to be an Abhorsen one day.

She strolled briskly back out again, still smiling, to where the Rangers had already sorted out a decent-sized circular ring on the grass and were sitting around watching. She couldn't help but notice that a few Rangers had swords of their own across their laps and by their sides, and the smile split a little wider. So she wasn't the only one who enjoyed sparring.

The captain was waiting patiently. "Would you prefer best of three bouts, or a single match?"

Mirayle finished stretching and blinked, surprised: that was the friendliest sentence she'd ever heard out of him. "I don't really mind. Best of three?"

The captain shrugged and nodded almost simultaneously, a fluid movement Mirayle guessed was common wherever it was he had come from, but clearly meant 'all right'.

She stepped into the ring, and took up the first, neutral stance, drawing her swords and saluting her opponent, as she had been taught to start every sparring match; in more informal bouts, she dispensed with it, but not this time. It seemed to be a custom the Kingdom shared with the country the Rangers had come from, as the captain returned a similar salute, and then, when Mirayle would have expected a first offensive- didn't move.

That didn't mean he wasn't waiting for a move to be made: Mirayle could see the tension in his hands and arms and watching eyes. She made a move instead, drawing her swords, which had been crossed defensively, apart with a whistle of steel, and bringing them together in a neat double slash, which he parried, and then moved much quicker than Mirayle had been expecting, in a series of passes she hardly parried, forcing her back until she managed to slip in a jab of her own that wasn't quite as unexpected as she'd have liked it to be and escaped sideways, disengaging.

They circled. Had Mirayle had breath or concentration to spare, she might have spoken, but she didn't. This time, the captain broke the quiet, with a fierce cut she parried easily, taking the opening to try and disarm him, but he slipped backwards, on the defensive, but not disarmed. Growing in confidence, she pushed her advantage, a step, another step, running almost purely on automatic with the steps her uncle had drilled her in flashing unbidden into her mind, and then there was another shrill whistle of metal on metal and one sword flew from her hand.

The teenager gasped in shock and blocked the next blow clumsily. She had _not_ seen that coming.

The Rangers watched, surprised that she was not bereft of both swords already and impressed that she was holding her own, but Mirayle was in trouble. Her right hand felt empty, and her control was wavering.

The swords clashed, once, twice, three times, and then there was that invisible flicker again, only heralded by the sound of metal on metal, and her second sword flew from her hand. Immediately, the captain stepped back.

Mirayle barely managed not to stumble and fall in shock –she was used to losing sometimes, but usually it took longer- but she did manage, and went carefully to pick up her swords. "First match is yours," she said, and prepared for the second match, which she had a strong feeling she was going to lose.

She was right.

By the third match, however, she was fighting back, and actually gaining some ground against the captain, which was impressive. The Rangers would have leaned forward to see better, fascinated, were it not for the fact that both fighters were moving fast, unpredictably and with little concern for who might happen to be in the way, and therefore common sense dictated that one not get in the wayso as not to lose one's nose.

The captain made an ill-advised slash, and Mirayle seized the moment, a light that Nicholas Sayre wore when he made perfect sense of a puzzle glittering in her eyes as she ducked the slash and executed a perfect disarm.

The captain's sword flew from his hand and the Rangers in its path hurriedly got out of the way. The well-used steel fell to the grass, and blood pearled on a tiny cut on the Ranger's sword-hand. Mirayle saw it, and slapped her hand to her forehead. "Oh, I am sorry. That was clumsy of me." She paused, remembering the Rangers' previous reaction to Charter magic, but it would be polite. "May I heal it? It's not witchery," she added warningly, "so don't call it so, and if you prefer I won't, but I can have that scratch gone in a twinkling."

There was a tense moment: Tomas appeared to be thinking about it, and the Rangers and Mirayle held their breath, waiting for his verdict. At last, he held out the scratched hand. Mirayle took it carefully in one of hers, and sketched the gold-glowing marks in the air with her other hand- as usual, her glasses threatened to slip down her nose and ruin her concentration, but she paid them little attention -pulling 

them through the air and over the mark, where they sank into the skin. Slowly, the fresh red of the blood dulled, and pink new skin grew over the small cut; the new skin was warm to the touch. Mirayle glanced up into the captain's face, over the tops of her glasses, smiling. "See? It's that simple."

Tomas flexed his hand, watching the healed cut for any signs of the new skin splitting under the strain, which didn't appear. Eventually he sniffed. "I suppose it has its uses."

Mirayle laughed, and for once she looked sixteen and on top of the world, but there was no sunshine to light her laughter and no safety to prolong it, and the grey rain poured down outside the House.

--

It's hard to take the measure of someone who doesn't speak. The young man who called himself Sam was mending a rip in a sail with neat stitches, sitting cross-legged on the boat's deck; his eyes were down, looking at his work, but Faramir could tell he was watching his sister and his surroundings, always ready for something. For what?

And if Sam was silent, his sister (now warmer, drier and looking significantly less under the weather) was currently personifying laughter and charm, her hands gesturing illustratively and her eyes laughing while she spoke, fast and clear. She'd already charmed Eowyn into laughing with her, and that strange white cat was sleeping quiescent in her lap.

Faramir watched the pair, but returned most often to looking at Sam. In the light afforded by the strange symbols the boy had drawn, both siblings looked similar: curly brown hair, grey eyes- but the wariness in the boy's eyes, his name, the guarding role he seemed to take on as a matter of course reminded him of another Sam. Of course, Sameth Wallmaker was a good two feet taller than Samwise Gamgee, but the parallels were there, and it was more than a little disconcerting.

"Is something the matter?" The boy's voice was cool, but neutral; although Faramir might not have guessed him to be a lord's son when he first saw him, red with anger and messy-haired, the voice told him that and more now.

"Not really," he replied in the same even tone. "You remind me of a friend."

Sam put down the mending –the rip had been caused by one of the river-soldiers' arrows, and he was anxious to mend it now while they had a safe mooring- and looked up at the lord, who almost reminded him of Abhorsen cousins, what with the black hair and pale skin. He smiled. "Do I? I doubt it's someone I'm related to- while I have a lot of cousins and so on, I'm almost certain none of them ever made it here." He waved an arm to indicate the darkening evening, and a biting insect landed on his arm. He slapped it. "Excuse me."

Sam got up, leaving the mending behind, and went into the cabin. He came back carrying something small and glittering in his hand, which was revealed to be a small metal frog. Faramir stared as the boy muttered a word and sketched another 

symbol, bringing the frog to life; it leapt off his hand and suddenly a long tongue flickered out to catch an insect.

"What is that thing?" Faramir demanded.

The boy grinned. "An invention of my father's, designed for places where there are lots of insects. It's one of the first things he designed himself, like this." He pulled an apparently ordinary coin out of his pocket, and flipped it into the air. It flew up, and up, and up- and then hovered. Eowyn caught sight of the glitter of gold, and her jaw dropped.

Aletta clapped her hands, and the coin flew to her, dropping gently into her palm. She offered it to Eowyn. "Try it yourself."

Eowyn hesitated, and flipped the coin into the air. It flew upwards, turning over and over gently, glinting in the firelight. She snapped her fingers, with a sharp crack, and it fell to her palm; she threw it up in the air again, and it still worked. An incredulous smile spread across her face, and she laughed. "That is the most- the most- I never saw _Gandalf _make anything like that!"

"Who's Gandalf?" Aletta asked.

"He's a wizard," Eowyn answered readily. "Gandalf the White."

"Is a wizard like a mage?" Aletta enquired, tucking her knees up to her chin and wrapping her arms round them, so that her chin was propped on her kneecaps.

"So many questions! I suppose he is like a mage, but I have never seen Gandalf make anything like this coin. He makes fireworks, though. I have also never seen an _istar_-" she stumbled over the pronunciation of the word, and glanced at Faramir, but he nodded encouragingly "-like you or your brother. For one thing, you are very young."

"Not that young. I'm ten and a quarter!"

"The quarter is very important," Sam remarked softly, smiling slightly, making Faramir think that the boy was acting much older than his age; Faramir was almost certain he wasn't older than sixteen, but Faramir had met less level-headed thirty-year-olds. Aletta stuck her tongue out at her brother. Eowyn grinned.

"No, you remind me more of hobbits than of _istari_," she said firmly.

"Hobbits?" Sam said curiously, not having been paying attention when Eowyn mentioned them.

"Hobbits!" Aletta exclaimed at the same time. "Merry and Pippin and Frodo and Sam! You told me about them! Aren't they a lot shorter than us? And what's an _istari_-" she mangled the word even worse than Eowyn- "anyway?"

Faramir nearly laughed openly at the look on his wife's face. Few children of Aletta's age disregarded propriety enough to bombard Eowyn with questions, and 

she was not used to it. He stepped in. "_Istari_ is the plural of _istar_; _istar_ is an Elvish word for wizard."

"Elvish?" Sam asked. "I always thought elves and fae were just stories. I should probably have known better, given the way Ancelstierrans think of magic, but still."

Faramir made a mental note not to let either child within hailing distance of an elf until he could trust Sam not to look as if he were scrutinising every word for lies, and Aletta not to use questions like offensive weapons. "Elves are real," he explained. "They are an old, old people, who came to Middle-Earth long ago from Valinor. There are two kinds of Elvish; Quenya, which is mostly ceremonial as I understand it, and Sindarin."

"Oh," Sam said, digesting this, and let his sister take centre stage again.

"Why do we remind you of hobbits?" she wanted to know.

Eowyn smiled at her. "Because you are bright and cheerful and inquisitive. Hobbits as a whole tend not to stop asking questions until you gag them."

"Frodo was different," Aletta objected. "You said Frodo was quiet."

"He was," Eowyn said, clearly having some difficulty keeping up with the speed at which Aletta leapt from conclusion to conclusion and not having expected Aletta to remember the details of the hobbits' characters. Sam could have warned her to expect such things; Aletta had the memory of an elephant. "But he had a burden greater than is given to most to bear."

Aletta failed to be squashed into docility and blissful silence by the serious words. "Like the Abhorsen?"

Eowyn frowned, and Faramir gathered that most of the information whizzing backwards and forwards in Aletta and Eowyn's conversation had come from Eowyn, not Aletta. He was not surprised; Aletta seemed to be a champion questioner. "The Abhorsen?"

"The person who gets rid of the Dead things." Aletta shuddered, and touched her Charter mark, which flared reassuringly. Eowyn closed her eyes briefly: she was quite sure she was never going to get used to seeing an apparent burning brand on a child's forehead. "My grandmother, and my great-aunt, of course, but Auntie Lirael's the Abhorsen-in-Waiting and she's a lot younger than my grandmother 'cause they're half-sisters so Auntie Lirael's the same age as my father."

"Quirk of the family tree," Sam explained quietly to Faramir before the man had time to become confused as to why two women being half-siblings meant they had to be so far apart in age. "Auntie Lirael and Grandmother were born twenty years apart, Auntie Lirael didn't even know she was related to Grandmother until she was nearly twenty, so the generations are a mess."

"Oh," Faramir said blankly.

Sam smiled. "It's confusing. My great-aunt's the same age as my actual aunt, more or less." The smile slid off his face, and Faramir felt watched. It was a peculiar, rather unpleasant feeling, although there wasn't yet any hostility in the gaze, just wariness and reserve. "I've been meaning to ask- why have you come to sit with us, here and now? What's interesting you?"

All right, Faramir thought wearily. Here we go. He had actually expected to hear this before; Sam didn't seem like the sort to take something at face value if there was a hint of something worrying to mar it. The lad appeared, at least superficially, to be a cautious person, and he was now bearing out that impression. "We chose to meet with you here because we did not wish to take you away from your boat and into more unfamiliar surroundings than you ahve plainly already been hauled into. As why I am so interested, I have never heard of this Old Kingdom that you claim to come from, nor seen any magic like to that you use; your boat, your clothes and your accent all suggest that you are foreign, but are not similar to those of other countries near here. I do not suppose that you would make up quite such an elaborate tale for your own amusement, and I see no reason to doubt your story. I have always been interested in different cultures; yours appears as different as it is possible to be from that of the country I grew up in. Nor do I wish to leave you stranded in Gondor alone, and although from your description of events earlier I gained the impression that you were taken from your home by strange magic, I do not see why it should not be possible for us together to find some way to return you there, for there is magic in this land too." He took in the serious, guarded look on Sam's face and decided to lighten the tone a little. "Furthermore, had I sent you away from here immediately, Eowyn would have _skinned_ me. She likes your sister already, and would have heartily disapproved of dismissing a pair of lost –forgive me- children, even if accompanied by some sort of... guardian spirit, and especially if one of them was ill."

Sam, who had taken up the torn sail again, looked down at his hands holding needle, thread and sailcloth, and thought for a few moments. Then he looked back at Faramir, and nodded. "I understand. Thank you." He grinned, an easier and more sincere expression than the smile he had used before. "And I shall forgive you calling me a child. I have heard worse."

Faramir smiled back at him.

"Will you tell me about this place?" Sam asked. "Ithilien? Gondor?"

"Of course. This is Ithilien, granted to me by King Elessar, and part of the country Gondor. We are an old nation, claiming ancestry from Númenor, a more ancient race. The capital is Minas Tirith, the White City- that is where King Elessar lives, and where I grew up, in the days before the War of the Ring when my father was Steward of Gondor."

Sam nodded his understanding, though he was keeping his eyes on his work. "I'm listening."

"Dol Amroth is a princedom near the sea, some way from Gondor, but with close ties to Gondor. Prince Imrahil rules it, and it's said that there's elvish blood in that line. My wife Eowyn comes from Rohan, Gondor's near neighbour; a race of 

horsemen and women, as Eowyn never fails to remind anyone who makes the mistake of assuming that the women of Rohan have not the valour of their menfolk. They breed beautiful horses, and are valiant in war; they don't write books, but they sing many songs."

Sam poked himself with the needle and muttered something too quiet to tell if it were a swearword or not, putting the bleeding finger in his mouth. Once he'd removed it, he remarked: "That sounds a little like the Southerlings to me, although the Southerlings are sailors to a man."

"Southerlings?"

"Refugees," Sam elaborated, tying off the stitches and cutting the thread attaching cloth to needle with a small knife. "They came to the Old Kingdom in the wake of a civil war- my grandparents granted them lands near the Ratterlin Delta, the Ratterlin being the main river in the Kingdom. They sing a lot of songs, and some of them are beautiful. My mother was a Southerling, but she was a rational woman, not superstitious- didn't fear magic the way most of them did- do." He snorted. "Wouldn't have got within a mile of my father if she did."

Faramir was silent: there had been something odd about that little speech, and eventually he found it. "You said was."

"I did." Sam was prodding the stitched-up tear, looking for weak spots. He found one, and threaded the needle again, shooting another opaque glance at the older man.

The boy said nothing, and Faramir wondered if the silence was intended to answer his question-that-hadn't-been-a-question, or if he was going to have to spell it out. This was a large difference from the other Sam he'd known, which he found almost comforting. Sam Gamgee had _never_ played court games or watched his tongue. Hobbits didn't go in much for such things. But if what Faramir suspected was true, Sam would have been looking after his younger sister and possibly other siblings for some time, and given that he appeared to be some sort of lord's child, probably had to live at Court and deal with all the Court politics lords' children were thrust into.

"How old were you?" he asked evenly, not looking at the boy. "When your mother died?"

"Nine. Aletta was four." Sam matched his tone very well- the boy must be a natural mimic to do it so effectively. "How old were _you_?"

Oh, _ouch_. Fifteen-year-olds surely were not supposed to be this sharp? True, Faramir had probably given himself away by not assuming that Sam's mother had simply left her people and declared herself no longer a Southerling. "Five," Faramir answered anyway, and caught a suspicious sliver of a glance from Eowyn, who knew how much he disliked discussion of that particular topic and had probably heard enough of the conversation, despite Aletta occupying her attention, to know what was being spoken of.

Faramir smiled briefly at her- _it's all right_ –but even as he did so it suddenly occurred to him that if the girl was as precocious as her brother she might have deliberately drawn off Eowyn to let Sam get his measure uninterrupted, which was a chilling thought and moderated his smile enough that Eowyn's eyes narrowed slightly in an expression of patent disbelief.

Faramir turned back to Sam, only to find that Sam was concentrating on strengthening the weak spot in his mending, and _that cat_ had escaped the girl and was watching him.

Oh yes- the cat.

No matter how much Sameth's wariness and assured habit of acting as if he was older, probably brought on by the death of his mother and having to help look after his sister, or the magic both siblings possessed in quantity disconcerted Faramir, the cat was much worse. It wasn't necessarily a cat; it had already said, in that sly, sardonic voice, that it was not a cat- once many things and now only several, whatever that was intended to mean –it was watching Faramir as if the man was a crass idiot, whose flounderings were affording the cat amusement. Young Aletta had said it was called Mogget, a strange name for a demon if it was one, and Sam had described it as 'an irritating cat that talks', and had explained hurriedly that though Mogget had once had a serious vendetta against the Abhorsens, that had been erased when Sameth the elder freed him twenty-one years ago. Faramir could only think that Sameth Wallmaker must have been a very brave or very foolish man to do so, but whatever the circumstances, Mogget still watched him.

Although neither child appeared to expect anything other than demands for fish from the cat-thing, which was probably very sensible given their characterisation of the animal- no- beast- no- creature?- no- oh, damn it, _thing_, unless Faramir was very much mistaken it was acting as some sort of guardian. And now it was watching him, and the mocking green eyes were getting on his nerves. Boromir would laugh, but, Faramir reflected, were Boromir in his place for more than a few moments he too would start to become highly uncomfortable.

The cat-thing had got up. Now it was walking towards him. Faramir stiffened, almost imperceptibly, and thought of calling on Sam to speak to the cat, but the boy had got up and taken the sail off to stow it in some locker or other, leaving Aletta –who was a ten-year-old child, even if the cat seemed to heed her more than her brother- and Eowyn on the other side of the Charter-fire, and Eowyn had not brought her sword. Not, of course, that Faramir thought the cat was going to attack him. Of course not.

Eowyn had noticed its approach out of the corner of her eye, and Aletta had noticed that the older woman was not attending to her, and had looked for the cause of the distraction: she flapped one hand dismissively, but Faramir could see that Eowyn was, as usual, not convinced.

The cat stopped, and spoke quietly, mockingly. Everything it did seemed to mock; Faramir would wager that it would happily spend hours winding up Lord Elrond _just to see what would happen_, and laugh at the results, no matter what they 

were. "I would demand your attention," it said, "but I know you are watching me already."

"I would argue that it is you who are watching me," Faramir answered. "What manner of demon are you, and what are you to these children that you feel the need to guard them from my people?"

Ah- that was a mistake. The cat had now paced round to face Faramir, its tail idly twitching and green eyes eldritch in the dark. "I do _not _guard these children. They remind me of their father, who possessed more intelligence than I find common in humans, and who would doubtless be devastated to lose them, which would be the ruin of a great mind. It would also be the waste of the sense young Sameth shows, although I fear his sister is unredeemably silly- though a good fisherwoman," Mogget acknowledged scathingly, and Aletta grinned, patently used to such insults.

"As for what I am," the cat continued, snatching unbeknownst to anyone present the perfect opening for a little demonstration to prove to this lordling that he was a force to be reckoned with and not to be provoked, "I am no demon, and you insult me by calling me such."

("Mogget," Aletta said warningly.)

"I am one of the Nine, Yrael who was imprisoned by the Seven, I am a thing passing beyond your comprehension-"

(The cat's green eyes were glowing fiercer, or was it only Faramir's imagination? Aletta got to her feet, and said again, "_Mogget_.")

"-and you would be foolish to underestimate me!"

Faramir shot backwards instinctively as the cat went up in a sheet of light blue crackling flame, with ragged holes for eyes and mouth. "Mogget!" Aletta shrieked. "Stop it, stop it this instant!"

And then she screamed in earnest, as a slim arrow sped overhead and passed through the creature of flame, lighting with a bright flame and threatening to plunge into the undergrowth on the other side of the river and set it alight, until Aletta cried something aloud and a golden bubble spread from her outstretched fingers to capture and extinguish the arrow. Both arrow and bubble sank without trace in the river, and Aletta turned to face the direction of the shot, light dancing above the fingers of one upraised hand while the other held a spell cupped. Mogget had turned also, and was silent. Sameth appeared on deck, holding a drawn and surprisingly wicked-looking dagger with the fiery symbols playing restlessly on it.

"Declare yourself!" Aletta called shakily, and a figure moved at the top of the path.

"Legolas?" Eowyn asked unsteadily, getting to her feet to peer into the darkness.

The elf did not answer. Sam added to his sister's call- "Who are you? Declare yourself!"

"First explain why there is blue fire on your deck that is not burning the boat," the elf said grimly from the shadows he had vanished into. Faramir had no doubt that he had another arrow nocked. Mogget, or Yrael, had simmered down, and was burning less fiercely.

"It's magic," Aletta explained. "He would burn the boat, if it weren't for the fact that I wouldn't be pleased and if I wasn't pleased I wouldn't fish for him. Sam, put that down, Mogget, please calm yourself. Master- Legolas?" She hopped over the gunwale, still holding the light aloft.

Sam did not put down the dagger, and he moved forward a little. "'letta," he said softly, "let me-"

"No," Aletta said, and moved onto the dark path, lighting it as she went.

"Very brave, or very foolish," Eowyn muttered, and Sam replied grimly:

"The last one. Is there danger?"

"I doubt it," Eowyn answered, and Sam relaxed a little, and continued to watch after his sister.

She was still moving up the path, until she reached the shadows at the top, where Legolas had fired from. "Are you going to come forward or am I?" she asked conversationally. "I haven't got anything that could harm you."

("Wrong," the crackling fire said, sotto voce.

"_Shut up_," Sam said. The crackling fire snapped its gaping maw shut, and assumed an air of innocence, insofar as it was possible for fire to do so. "And don't think I'm not going to tell Dad about all this when we get home," the boy added.

"_If_ we get home, princeling, _if _we get home.")

"I shall come forward rather than be sought out," Legolas answered the girl, unaware of the dialogue on the boat, and stepped forward. None of the watchers could see, for Aletta had her back to them, but Aletta gave him her most welcoming smile and raised her light as high as she could to see better. It cast unforgiving shadows on the elf's face.

"My name's Aletta," Aletta told him cheerfully. "Yours is Legolas, isn't it?"

"It is. What is that fire?" Legolas asked again, looking distinctly unforgiving.

"It's Mogget," Aletta said, still cheerful. "He's a talking cat, most of the time. I think he was just trying to frighten Lord Faramir, probably 'cause he thinks it would be funny. He's per- per-"

"Persistent?" Mogget suggested, from the boat.

"I meant the word that begins with per than means contrary," Aletta said severely, looking over her shoulder at him. "Pervase, or something. That wasn't in the least necessary and you should turn back into a cat right now before you scorch the deck by mistake and I have to sand it down."

"I will not scorch your precious deck," and "Not till you're back on deck and away from the arrows," Mogget and Sam said at the same time.

Aletta stuck her tongue out at both of them, and turned back to look at the much taller elf, her eyebrows raised in a question. "Are you coming aboard?"

Legolas hesitated, glanced at Faramir and Eowyn, and then nodded. Aletta extinguished the offensive spell she had still held in her hand surreptitiously and strolled back to the Lady Elen, followed by the lord of Ithilien's elves. "Mind the gunwale," she said as she jumped over it, just too late, and Legolas cursed as he bashed his knee on it surprisingly hard. Sameth's faced twitched, and he sheathed the dagger. Mogget did not bother to hide his snicker.

Unfortunately for him, it caught Aletta's attention, and she glared at him reprovingly. "Please stop being silly and- oh, you are scorching the deck! Turn back into a cat right now!"

"Magic word," Mogget said grumpily.

"Please," Aletta obliged, and then, there was a white cat with green eyes and a blackened spot where the fire had been. The girl smiled and sat down again next to Eowyn, and Mogget came and jumped into her lap. Eowyn stiffened, misliking her proximity to what was plainly a very dangerous creature.

"Don't worry," Mogget muttered. "I have no intentions of causing further fireworks." He curled up, and then a thought occurred to him, and he popped his head up. "And as for you, Master Elf, you can sit down. I may have scorched the deck a little, but that does not mean it is not perfectly fit to be sat on."

"He's right, you know," Sam said, and Legolas turned to look at him. Sam smiled; it wasn't as wide a smile as Aletta's, but it was no less sincere. "He won't-" Sam waved a hand vaguely, searching for the words- "go up in a sheet of flame again, either, or he knows my father will be furious with him for scaring people, and Dad's the only one who can really make him listen."

"I appreciate your father as a man of intellect," came a snotty voice from Aletta's lap, where Mogget was tightly curled up. "The Royals are rarely bright, the Abhorsens' dedication to duty is impressive but their habit of self-sacrifice is not, the Clayr are prone to keeling over when the visions strike them, but the Wallmakers have brains. Mostly, that is. And I am quite sure than your father would appreciate my motives."

Aletta stroked him absently. "'Course he would. What were your motives anyway?"

Mogget lifted his head and looked narrowly at her. "Nice try."

Sam ignored the byplay, and said to Legolas. "My name's Sameth- I'm usually called Sam. I'm the Wallmaker's son, Aletta's my sister. I gather your name is Legolas?"

Legolas nodded. Sam stepped past him, and crouched down to examine the blackened wood, before deciding the damage wasn't too severe and moving to sit back down in his old place.

No-one said anything. Mogget appeared to have gone to sleep, though Sam would not have bet money on that. Then, Aletta yawned cavernously, and Sam started as if woken from a doze himself and said firmly: "Go to bed, 'letta, and don't think I'm not going to tell Dad all about your behaviour."

"_I'm going to tell Da-ad_," Aletta mocked Sam's tone nasally, spoiling the effect by yawning again. "Don't be a snitch. And who said you could say when's bedtime? If I go to bed you'll all talk about grown-up things and forget to tell me about it in the morning."

"Go or I'll make you."

Aletta's eyes narrowed. "Not if I push you in the river first."

"Just. _Go_," Sam said loudly. Aletta tipped Mogget off, got up, and pattered across the deck to the cabin.

"G'night," she said as an afterthought.

"Good night to you too," Sam replied. His sister vanished into the dark cabin, presumably to sleep, but more likely to eavesdrop.

Only a few seconds after she had gone, Legolas hissed an enquiry in Elvish at Faramir, who answered carefully.

"I'm still here," Sam said, not loudly but clearly. "And I do know that wasn't you asking about tomorrow's br- _oh my God you have pointy ears!_"

--

In a room in Rivendell, a young woman with blonde hair and brown skin woke slowly, and sat up, her muscles aching and stiff. There was a soft exclamation from the dark-haired nurse in the corner, who got up and moved over to the bedside, smiling, and said something more. The young woman frowned. "I'm sorry. I don't understand a word you're saying."

--

Some hours later, Mirayle tried the handle of the door, and found it unlocked. She pushed it open gently, and slipped in to the darkened room.

Levin was fast asleep. She had hoped he would be- they were leaving tomorrow, a fact she'd barely remembered to acquaint the Rangers with, and he'd need to be rested. So, as a matter of fact, would she. Remembering how late she'd got to bed last night, Mirayle decided to request an early dinner from the sendings.

She padded further into the room as quietly as possible. She was always clumsier in Ancelstierre, for some reason, but she still wasn't very stealthy even in bare feet, and she stood on the floorboard that creaked by mistake and froze. The Clayr- he looked about Filris' age, she thought –frowned in his sleep and turned over, but didn't wake. Glancing around the room, she saw his pack, which was ready, and it suddenly occurred to her she didn't know how he'd reached the Wall. She'd have to ask him.

"Mish! Mish, look out!"

The words were not spoken particularly loudly, but they were clear, and Mirayle froze again. He was talking in his sleep?- oh, no, visions, that was no good, she realised. It had happened to Filris sometimes, if she fell asleep shortly after a particularly bad episode: her mind would become more receptive in sleep, and she would dream visions. She always woke exhausted, and had to go to sleep again.

"Who's that? Wallmaker's daughter. White city- flat plains. _Pointy ears_? Yrael! Fire!" He was rambling, muttering words aloud seemingly at random as they flashed bright and elusive in his mind.

Mirayle looked around again in the dim light, uncertain of what to do, and then spotted the full ewer beside the basin in the corner of the room. Inspiration struck, bright, hopeful and foolhardy.

She moved across the room as quickly and quietly as she could and picked it up, carried it back (slopping a little), hesitated, called a few marks into the forefront of her mind, and dashed the ewer over Levin's face.

The cold water woke him and he shot upright, eyes flying open, and choked "Death- too late-" but before he could say any more Mirayle had clapped her hand over his eyes, the Charter marks for sleep and peace shining in her imagination, and he collapsed slowly back down again.

Mirayle stared at him, holding the ewer in both hands now and his last words echoing fearfully in her mind. _Death- too late_. It could be false- it could be true, it could mean anyone at all. It could mean the necromancer Mhor, any Royal Guard, a civilian, Mirayle's cousin Kess, King Touchstone.

It could mean Mirayle.

Mirayle's face turned ashen, and she put down the ewer and fled.

--

"Is there anything wrong with my ears?" Legolas asked, baffled. Without actually being seen to move, Sameth had managed to shift to the far side of the Charter light which was still dancing on deck, his eyes wide and his mouth open in shock.

"They're..." Sam touched his own ears- "they're pointy. My _God_!"

"This is common, in elves," Legolas informed him, slightly peevishly.

"I didn't know you were an elf," Sam protested. "Nobody told me. We don't have elves where I come from. I just thought you were a bloody good shot!"

"This state of blinking bafflement is common in the Royal family when faced with something they do not understand," Mogget told the world at large in a bored tone. "And I expected better from young Sameth. Dear me. Why _do _I bother?"

"Royal?" three voices asked at the same time, and "Bother?" one lone voice demanded, all in the same tone of astonishment.

"You never bother about _anything_," Sam accused.

"Incorrect," Mogget said, still sounding bored. "I have just taken considerable pains to frighten these good people into awe of me. This means they will not harm you, as they will believe that I will wreak havoc. Whether I will or not depends on how I feel, of course, I've always found you dreadfully disrespectful-"

"Cut it out," Sam ordered, with no expectation of being obeyed. "You mean that's why you did your I Am Yrael, Fear Me Wretched Mortals act?"

"It is indeed," Mogget said, adding sarcastically to the surprised observers, "such a _bright _boy as he is."

"I can't help feeling that was a bit pointless," Sam said severely. "We were doing quite well without you acting up. And you upset Aletta."

("Do you not feel as if we are being ignored?" Legolas muttered to Faramir in Elvish. Faramir blinked, and took a moment to process the statement, which had been said at speed and was therefore a little difficult to comprehend.

"Yes," he murmured back in the same language. "Although I, for one, am glad if it means this Mogget creature will explain himself. He appears not to have meant so much harm at all, though I am not flattered by his reading of my character. Oof!"

The last was not Elvish, nor part of any language at all, but consequent on the hefty elbow in the ribs the Princess of Ithilien had just given her husband. "Either speak a language we can all understand or shut up," she hissed in perfectly ordinary Westron, and both Legolas and Faramir shut up.)

"Nothing short of Ancelstierre declaring war would upset Aletta," the cat maintained, ignoring the muttered conference the adults appeared to be holding. "A sunnier child I have rarely met."

"Still, you should probably apologise to them for scaring them. That won't undo your good work-" Sam could be sarcastic too, if he wanted to- "and we won't get into trouble with them. We still need to know where we are, remember!"

Mogget huffed. "All right. Mortals!" he called across the Charter light, unheeding or unaware of the fact that Legolas was capable of living as long as he liked. "I am sorry if I upset your delicate sensibilities with my little display, but just so that you know, I am powerful enough to lay waste to this land and all in it, so don't cross me!"

"_That's not what I meant_!" Sam snapped.

--

The teenager woke just at dawn. She had forgotten to draw the curtains before going to bed the night before, and a thin grey light filtered into her room.

Unable to see much and blinking sleepily, she put out one cautious hand and felt for her glasses, but only succeeded in knocking them off her bedside table, the edge of which they had been balanced on. She cussed, hauled herself closer to the edge of her bed, and felt about on the floor until she found her glasses, which she perched on her nose, and threw back the covers. Her slippers were probably somewhere under her bed, but she ignored them, still sleepy, and moved over to her bedroom door, which she unbolted clumsily and opened, intending to go in search of tea and breakfast.

She was not the only one stirring, but when she spotted a Ranger on the floor below, realised who it was and also realised that she was only wearing pyjamas, she woke up all the way and whisked herself back inside before she was seen.

"Idiot," she berated herself aloud. "Forgetting there are other people in the House. Forgetting today isn't just like a day in the holidays. Where's that damned shirt. Don't tell me I _packed _it. Oh Shiners bless, this's too small. Whyyyy have they put out Susie's armour, they_ know _she's a good two inches shorter than me and that's _not_ my surcoat! Why would I wear armour at breakfast anyway? Stupid sendings. Losing their marbles. Damn, damn, damn!"

Mirayle continued to grumble to herself in this fashion, interspersed with curses, until she was dressed in shirt and breeches, with her hair tied back so strictly it couldn't escape, and had armour and surcoat laid out ready for after breakfast. She stepped out of her room, looked out of the window at the end of the corridor to see if anyone else was up, and saw that the Rangers were striking camp. She also saw that there was a brisk breeze rustling the trees in the orchard, and a faint sliver of suspicion crept into her mind.

She trotted down the stairs and out of the house, unmindful of the fact that she was barefoot, and looked up at the sky. It seemed lighter, and the rain was less heavy; there was, too, the wind, which was odd because yesterday had been perfectly still and there had been no breeze when they set out from the Wall. She frowned. It was as if the weather was clearing- but why would the weather be clearing? The rain 

was intended, if she'd guessed right, to keep those who might oppose the necromancer indoors and not in fighting trim, so why would it clear? Mirayle could understand a loss of control at the edges of the spell, but Abhorsen's House was well into the Kingdom, and should have remained covered.

But if it wasn't an accident, then it must have been done on purpose. And why would a necromancer feel the need to do something like that? What couldn't cope with the rai- oh.

Mirayle's fists clenched instinctively, and her face drained of all colour: fear, cold and inexorable, coalesced at the base of her spine and started to rise. She clenched her fists harder, so that her nails bit into the palms of her hands, and thought _Get a grip on yourself, Sayre!_

"Hey! Emrys!" she called over to one of the Rangers nearby, the one who had helped her carry Levin out of the library before and who she had beaten in a best of three the day before after her defeat in her match with the captain. "Does it look to you like the weather's clearing?"

The Ranger squinted up at the sky for a few minutes, and then yelled back "I think so, my l- Mirayle. There will be better weather for travelling later today, I think."

Mirayle swore, and raced back into the house, heading for the observatory and passing Levin holding a bread roll spread with jam and butter without apologising for nearly knocking him over. She scrambled up the ladder to the observatory, and finally emerged in the glass-walled room, her toes sinking into the thick carpet. She looked around, and was glad to see that there were no Dead armies massing on the banks of the river just yet, but that didn't completely reassure her. She sat down on the stool, and put her eye to the telescope.

Mirayle had been up here before. Susellen disliked heights, but Nicholas Sayre had spent a good deal of time in the observatory, and had managed to interest his two youngest daughters in stargazing. Filris and Mirayle had at first been interested by the necessary late bedtimes and the hot chocolate the sendings would bring them, and then by the stars themselves and the number of stories their father could tell them about the constellations. A direct consequence of this was that Mirayle was both able to navigate by the stars should it become necessary, and was familiar with the use of a telescope, but there was always an unseemly kerfuffle in which she arranged her glasses and the telescope so that she could see, and this time it was made worse by the fact that her palms were sweating and her hands were shaking from fear.

She finally managed to focus the telescope and bring it to bear on the riverbanks by Abhorsen's House. There were, she knew, several ways out if you could get on to the banks, some of which she was very familiar with, but most of which were very hidden, very heavily-guarded and on the less accessible bank anyway. She swept the telescope round, once, twice, and found nothing.

She moved away from the telescope, and rubbed her damp palms on her breeches, taking several long, shuddering breaths. Stupid- stupid. There had been no 

need to fret quite so quickly, she should have known that the Dead would not appear until the rain was completely gone, and that wouldn't happen- she glanced at the clouds- maybe for another couple of hours.

Mirayle got up, and turned to go down the ladder, only to shriek, startled, at the sight of Levin's disembodied head poking through the hatch, one eyebrow raised and still munching on a bread roll. "What business have you got popping up here, there and everywhere like a jack-in-the-box?" she demanded. "Move or I'll kick your face in, I'm coming down."

"Good morning to you too," Levin said muffledly, jumping off the ladder and wondering what a jack-in-the-box was as Mirayle rattled down. "Everything all right?"

"No it most certainly is not," Mirayle snapped, cross that he'd made her shriek and full of nervous energy. "We're leaving as soon as possible, tell the Rangers if they're _still_ striking camp to bloody well strike it quicker. We're going to need to travel light and quick. You have jam on your face, by the way, just by your ear."

She vanished downstairs to wrest her own breakfast from the sendings, and Levin stared after her, perplexed. Then he shrugged- after all, Filris had warned him that her sister had her volatile moments, and it was best just to roll with the punches and do as she said –finished the roll, wiped the jam off his face and headed off to deliver Mirayle's instructions to the Rangers.

--

In the Glacier, Filris Sayre suffered her most complete vision yet while swimming in one of the heated bathing pools with some friends and despite being a more than competent swimmer almost drowned. Her terrified stammered whispers went no way to describing what she had seen, and she was in such a state that she was sedated almost immediately; when she woke up, she only remembered part of the vision, but was able to describe in graphic detail nightmares of darkness, rain, blood and drowning in cold grey water and refused to be left alone or in the dark for any stretch of time whatsoever.

What she remembered was this: a brief but vivid snapshot of a game of chess that had never ended, but had been interrupted, in some terrible fashion that had knocked the table holding the chessboard so that chessboard and pieces had fallen to the floor. The chess-pieces, black and white alike, were strewn, mingled with no regard for colour, across the floor, and the chessboard had split quite in half.

There was more, Filris insisted to the incredulous Infirmarian, silent Librarian and fretting Voice of the Nine Day Watch, and worse, for although none could tell when or if her vision might have taken or might take place, this put it firmly into the realm of the allegorical vision, which most of the Daughters of the Clayr scorned. One of the players must have had a glass of wine that had also been knocked to the floor, for there was a dark red liquid spattered liberally on the chessboard, but Filris had not seen any glass.

It had been, Filris asserted, voice rising hysterically, as if the broken chessboard was _bleeding_.


	24. A Gatehouse

**A/N:** My abject apologies- I posted the same chapter twice by mistake -and thanks to secret-scribbled-notebooks for pointing out the error. Clearly, the thought of school approaching is doing my head in. Nevertheless, I would be obliged if you would forgive my idiocy and **_review!_**

(Also: Sting- the rot, having begun thanks to that sniffy comment about the length of my chapters all that time ago, has taken serious hold. This chapter was within a whisker of ten thousand words. This is an absolute pain in the backside to write, and probably prevents my speedier updating. I blameyou.)

**Disclaimer:** See as before.

* * *

Mirayle accepted the three rolls and apple handed to her by a sending with more haste than grace, stuffed the apple into a pocket, devoured the first roll in three bites and started on the next one in more sedate fashion, all while racing upstairs on practised feet to fetch her pack. She paused, put the last roll down and performed a lightning check of her pack, which was unnecessary since the sendings had had a hand in packing them but highly reassuring, slithered into her armour, slithered out of her armour and removed the apple from her pocket, slithered back into it, added the surcoat and helm and buckled on her swordbelt, her fingers flying.

She faltered: she was forgetting something.

Carefully, she took out the bells, which she had put tidily away, and put the bandolier on; the weight on her chest was odd, but she would get used to it, she knew. And she didn't know how she knew that, but she knew that it was true, and she felt that perhaps, for once, though Mirayle was loath to admit it, Susellen might have been right, even if she did have to break with all tradition to be right.

There was a shouted swearword from outside that sounded like someone had just accidentally driven a tent-peg into someone's foot, which brought Mirayle back to herself. She hefted her pack, picked up the remaining roll and apple, and took the pack downstairs to dump while she went to put the wind up the Rangers a bit and do something very important and very necessary. A thought struck her, and she put the pack down and went back to her bed, where a neatly folded piece of paper lay. The Charter spell that might well be Mirayle's last letter, composed the night before.

She touched her Charter mark, and then the one on the paper. "_Dear Mother- Father- Susellen- Filris- whoever's listening to this- if you hear this I have left Abhorsen's House_," the message began, and Mirayle put it gently down again. She had struggled, composing it, and there had been tears on the paper she'd used to write a script for it on- she had not anticipated having to write her own epitaph at sixteen.

Mirayle picked up her pack and the food again and trotted downstairs, where she left the pack propped against the door and walked on into the garden. The Rangers were almost done striking camp and she could see Captain Tomas, looking highly ticked off by the haste, so she went over to him first.

"What is the need for this unseemly rush?" he complained before she'd got her mouth open. "We ought to wait for better weather."

"If we wait we'll be trapped, like children on sandcastles when the tide comes in," Mirayle said crisply, pleased that he'd been just irritating enough to provoke her to an authoritative tone. "The better weather is only so that the Dead can attack us. You remember, from the other day, the garrison at Barhedrin? Well, you've got a slight advantage over them, and that advantage is me, but it'll be no help if we're stuck here. We're leaving: it's not negotiable- I think you're an experienced enough soldier to understand that. We're running away, yes, but the whole point of running away, which generations of soldiers seem to have missed out on, is to find a better place to fight. This is a terrible place to fight, therefore we need a better one, therefore we are leaving. With me so far?"

The captain merely looked puzzled. "With you?"

Mirayle sighed; it didn't matter, so long as he'd taken in the argument. "It's a figure of speech. Don't worry about it. Now, excuse me, I have to see a man about a bridge."

She marched away, still giggling to herself over that comment, and thinking how Sal would laugh when she told her- if she ever got back to Wyverley College, that was. She tracked down Levin splashing water on his face in his room, and abruptly told him that she needed his help.

"Why?" was the unencouraging demand.

"Because of the bridge," Mirayle said. "I want your help to break it."

"Why?"

"Because it's a liability with the House empty, you i-" Mirayle tried to snap.

"I know that," Levin interrupted. "I want to know why you need my help. You're easily powerful enough to do it alone."

Mirayle hesitated: she didn't know herself really, except that she had wanted company. "I... don't want to do it alone."

"Then ask nicely," Levin suggested, running a check on his own pack similar to that Mirayle had performed on hers.

Mirayle fumed at this treatment, but gritted out a polite request.

"Thank you," Levin said graciously. "And since you ask so nicely, the answer is yes, of course." He picked up the pack, and carried it downstairs to put it beside her own: Mirayle followed him, still red in the face from being so thoroughly snubbed, and only dimly suspecting that it might have something to do with the incident last night where she'd dashed a lot of cold water over his head.

They went out together to the door in the walls of Abhorsen's House, and stood on the bank. The river rushed past as she raised the bridge, and Mirayle tried not to think about how easy it would be to fall in and drown, or worse be tumbled and rushed alive over the waterfall. After a while, it rumbled to the surface as usual, and she sneaked a glance at Levin, who was wearing his normal expression, which conveyed that he wasn't actually thinking anything at all.

She swallowed. "Will you help me, or..."

"I'll help." He put a hand on her shoulder.

Mirayle swallowed again, took a deep breath and plunged into the Charter, selecting marks and stringing them together from the golden sea that surrounded her. It was easier than normal: when she was at full strength, like other very strong 

Charter mages, she couldn't feel the limits of her power, but now she felt as if it was limitless, because Levin was a strong Charter mage too- she hadn't guessed how strong because the Clayr varied hugely in power and ability and she therefore hadn't made any assumptions, but he was probably about equal to her. The strength he was lending her was comforting, and made it a lot easier to hold the marks in her mind while she added the last few to sink the bridge permanently beneath the river.

She drew breath again –for some reason, she often held her breath while preparing a spell- opened her eyes, and spoke the master marks holding her spell together aloud. It flew from her hands, a gold mist composed of marks too small or perhaps too large to be seen by human eye, and wrapped itself around the bridge: there were a few moments of silence, then some cracking noises, and the bridge broke up, and sank- and all there was was the noise of the white-blue river rushing past, and the gleam of the water on the ancient black stepping stones.

Mirayle closed her eyes, suddenly very tired. Levin had let go of the shoulder he had been touching so she could draw on his magic, and without it she realised how much power the breaking had taken. And there were a hundred other things to tire her: the fact that this, being done, could never be reversed; the weight of responsibility lying on shoulders not used to it; the foolhardy and dangerous things she knew she would have to do, and soon.

"Are you all right?" Levin asked, with neither concern or pity in his voice, merely cool professionalism, which was irritating now but would probably be comforting later when there wasn't time for emotion. She sighed, took off her helmet, tugged uselessly at the too-tight braid she'd put her hair in and jammed the helmet back on again. She had eaten the last roll, but the apple still remained, and she bit hungrily into it.

"Yes. Sort of. It's just, doing this makes me feel like it's really real, it's not a stupid dream, I'm not going to wake up shrieking and flailing because I was calling out and Sal dumped a jug of water on me or something... have I apologised for doing that to you yet?"

"No."

"Well, I'm sorry." A pause. "Dad's going to kill me. That bridge was his pet project. Do you think the Rangers're ready yet?"

"I hope so," Levin said. "I should tell you before we go back to them that I had an episode of visions last night when I was sleeping- like dreams, but not- and I haven't seen anything good."

"What have you seen?" Mirayle settled her sword-belt more comfortably.

"I saw... people transported to another land. The Wallmaker's children, I think."

Mirayle's heart almost stopped. "Go on."

"My cousin Mishali was there, too. Those three were alive and safe, but I saw others who were not so lucky. I saw towns besieged and destroyed, rain that only lets up when death comes, Belisaere attacked, the Glacier under siege." Levin's eyes had gone far away again, as if he was going to have another vision, but no, he kept speaking. "I saw... a death, as well. A death I was certain would happen, no matter what, but I can't remember who because someone woke me." Mirayle flushed a little, but she made 'keep going' motions.

"I saw other deaths as well, not certain ones, but a lot of them: yours, mine, the Rangers', the Royal family's..." He shook his head. "But it was stranger than that. After I'd seen those deaths, the ones that might not hav- might not happen, I saw... It was as if there were consequences. Another white city stormed by the Dead, not Belisaere, this city was near mountains. A place that wasn't ready for the Dead scoured by an army of them, and led by a laughing man in red and black."

Mirayle shuddered. "All highly unpleasant. I'm not sorry I woke you."

Levin made a noise that indicated that he was. She glared at him. "Well, _I _don't want to know if I'm definitely going to die!"

"I might have seen something more _useful_." He sounded disgruntled.

"Is that likely?" Mirayle retorted. She glanced at the sky; it was getting clearer. "Come on, let's go. We haven't got much time, and the way we're going to go is secret but not terribly quick."

--

'Secret but not terribly quick' was an understatement, Levin reflected as he followed Mirayle along a muddy, reedy bank. After leaving Abhorsen's House- using a semi-transparent Charter magic bridge that made the Rangers highly nervous –they had walked a long way along the hard bank, before reaching an odd patch of greenery with a small boathouse on it which only existed because of some quirk of the currents. Either way, it was part of Abhorsen's House that Levin had no idea existed, but at least Mirayle seemed to know where she was going. That didn't stop the Rangers complaining, of course, but they were fairly quiet about it, understanding the need for stealth, and they were mostly jabbering away in that oddly lyrical language some of them spoke anyway, so Mirayle and Levin were blissfully ignorant of any insults that might have been being tossed around.

Mirayle was a little way ahead, walking slowly, trailing her fingertips over the stone wall and occasionally knocking on it with her fist. Eventually, she found a place that felt or sounded right when she hit it, Levin couldn't tell, and smiled with satisfaction. "Here."

Levin caught up to her, and stopped. The Rangers started to pile up behind them, in the manner of all moving queues which have suddenly hit an obstacle; Mirayle appeared to be grinning at a wall, so no-one was going anywhere for a little while. "Riss, Sam, Susie and Ray welcome you to Abhorsen's Gatehouse," she announced clearly, and the wall developed a smiling face that looked very like Mirayle's, with some differences like a lack of glasses and less bony face.

It answered her "Well met, sister," and vanished into the rock: a door-shape appeared where it had been. Mirayle reached out confidently and turned a handle that wasn't there; the door opened into a dark corridor. She stepped in, then realised that no-one was following her and poked her head out again.

"What? Not frightened by me and my sisters' old hideout?"

"You only have two sisters," Levin pointed out, running through his sparse knowledge of the Abhorsen and Royal families to try and work out who Sam was.

"Sam's the Wallmaker's eldest son; we probably couldn't have done this without his help, so he deserved a mention in the password. He was only eleven, but he had a lot more technical knowledge about spells than we did. All this-" she indicated the corridor- "was already here; we don't know who it belonged to. We just changed the key that made the door work, spruced the inside up a bit... It took most of the holiday. Filris named it Abhorsen's Gatehouse, and Susie came up with the nicknames. Those are just for confusing the grown-ups, really, make it harder for them to guess the password. Riss is Filris, Susie's Susellen, Sam's- actually, Sam's called Sam anyway –and I'm Ray, obviously. Well, come on!" She disappeared into the corridor. "And shut the door after you!" came a slightly muffled afterthought.

Levin stared for a few moments more, then walked into the corridor, which turned out not to be a corridor, but a large room. It was still dark, but getting lighter as Mirayle lit Charter lamps in sconces set into the walls; by their growing light, he could see comfortable sofas, a fireplace, a table and chairs, and a couple of bookcases. Strangely, there was no dust, but at the corner of his eye Levin could see a few lone dying Charter marks that might have been shed by a sending, so perhaps the Gatehouse had one or two sendings of its own. Mirayle flicked her fingers at the fireplace, and a larger Charter light sprang up in it, and Levin could see now that the walls were painted, with pictures of Abhorsens, Daughters of the Clayr and princes and princesses, kings and queens of past generations on a landscape background. There were fresher portraits in one corner, and blank white space for a whole other wall, as if space was being left for others. He wandered over to the fresher pictures, and recognised three of them as the Abhorsen sisters four or five years ago; from his vision he could also find Sam, as well as twins, a girl and a boy, who had to be Princess Kenesse and Prince Rowen.

"Ro did the drawings," Mirayle explained to him and the Rangers, who had filed in obediently. "He's brilliant at art, though these aren't finished, see? They're missing Aletta, the twins, Dica, and Sean, as well as all of the grownups. And he and Kess helped us look for the people in the other frescoes in the history books, but we could never find more than half of them, or guess who built this place... Maybe one day when this is all over, Ro'll come and we'll finish these off and we'll go to the Great Library in the Clayr's Glacier and find out who made it... I always wanted to know... Oi! You lot!"

The Rangers, who'd been looking around in shock and wonder, glanced at her. She moved out into the middle of the room and clapped her hands for attention. "This is Abhorsen's Gatehouse. We're not staying here, it's too small and we need to get further away, but there's time for a couple of minutes' rest. You can amuse 

yourselves by looking at the walls –just a tip: the black-haired, white-skinned ones are my family, the curly-haired ones are Royal, and the blonde ones are the Clayr like Levin here. Or you can read the books if you want, but look after them and put them back where you found them."

Then, she picked up a small glass ball from a basket on the table, whispered something at it so that it burst into life, and walked off, into a corridor that was still dark. Levin glanced around, and then quietly followed her, into the space which was more like a room than a corridor, a sort of cross-roads between rooms: he opened a door leading off from it at random, and saw a large bathtub, a basin and ewer of water, and a tiled floor. He shut it again, and went into the room Mirayle had chosen without hesitation.

It was a bedroom, with four sets of two bunks and a red rug on the floor; there was a tall wardrobe, and the walls were painted with a fresco Levin recognised as an old one from the Clayr's Glacer, dated at approximately eight hundred years old. There were names painted on some of the bunks, not the nicknames Mirayle had used to gain entrance, but full names:_ Susellen. Filris. Mirayle. Aletta. Kenesse. Idica_. They were painted in different colours, in an elaborate script with little decorations like flowers or stars; Mirayle ran her fingers over the names, and Levin noticed that the younger girls had bottom bunks, while the older ones had the top ones- very sensible.

"We used to say," Mirayle whispered, turning from bunk to bunk and opening the wardrobe to find a dark purple dress and a green skirt hung in it, "that one day we'd all come here for a week or two, just us cousins and maybe a couple of friends, although the cousins alone make eleven people to stay here, and if we ever had to hide this is where we would come... There's another room, you see, for the boys, and there are a couple of sendings who can cook. There's a kitchen... I'd hoped..."

"You'd hoped to find someone here," Levin completed softly.

Mirayle nodded. "Someone or something. Some help, maybe. Some residual magic, left over... Whoever built this was my kin, so perhaps there would be something, I thought. And Susellen loved this place- honestly, she planned everything for it, bossed me and Filris around, even Kess and Ro, and let me tell you, Kess does not like being bossed." She laughed, but it was a miserable excuse for laughter; half-choked and sad. "It's also a good stopping point. We've got a very long way to go, you know, I'm glad of any rest we can get now, in a safe place." She sighed, and took her glasses off, scrubbing her face with the hand not holding them, and Levin felt very sorry for her: she was only three years younger than his cousin, for all that she was a full inch taller, and she reminded him very much of Mishali in a particularly down mood.

She replaced the glasses, and gave him a bright, if brittle, smile. "So c'mon. Let's shoehorn these Rangers out of my sitting room."

"Shoehorn?"

"Ancelstierran thing for getting feet out of wellies," Mirayle supplied.

"_Wellies_?"

A sigh. "Waterproof boots."

"Oh. So... a shoehorn is a bootjack?" Levin said uncertainly, making connections in his mind.

"Yes- no, hang on a minute- Sorry, I've got that wrong. You shoehorn people _into_ things, not _out_ of them. Some days I hate living half in the Kingdom and half out of it! It gets so _confusing_!" Levin blinked, tried to work this out in his head, failed and decided to disregard it. Mirayle threw her hands up in exasperation as she strolled into the large sitting-room, and frowned at what she saw. "You know, Captain Tomas, those pictures aren't going to change no matter how hard you stare at them."

He turned, and said without preamble: "These are your family?"

"Well, some of them," Mirayle said, confused. "That's me, see there, and above me on the right is Susellen, and above me on the left is Filris –though they're actually shorter than me, they're my sisters- the twins, the girl and boy with dark hair and blue eyes, that's Kess and Ro- Princess Kenesse and Prince Rowen to you lot. They're my cousins, Kess's the Crown Princess, though I honestly can't imagine her being Queen-"

One and all, the Rangers were staring at her, trying to reconcile the obvious authority and power of the man they knew to be their king and the idea of Mirayle being related to someone like him, someone Royal. She frowned again. "What? I'm sure I mentioned this before. I didn't? Levin, quit giggling."

Levin bit his lip to stop himself snorting and assumed his best gormless expression.

"That is _not _an improvement," Mirayle informed him crossly. "Well, anyway. Yes, the Crown Princess is my cousin. No, we're _nothing_ alike. Happy? Good. We have a long way to go, so I suggest we get started."

--

"Sameth!" Eowyn called, running down the path to the private jetty where the _Lady Elen _was tied up. "Sameth! Aletta!"

"Lady Eowyn?" came an answering shout in Sameth's voice, and she rounded the corner, cantered down the last steep metres, and came to a skittering stop a few inches from the bank.

Sam and Aletta were sitting cross-legged on the deck and wearing identical looks of shock and bewilderment; Sam had a book open on his lap, and Aletta was eating a roll with jam, a common Old Kingdom breakfast completely foreign to Gondor or Rohan, but Eowyn wasn't paying attention to what Aletta was eating. Both children were wearing clean clothes, courtesy of the store permanently kept in the boat by Sameth the elder in case of a child falling in: Sameth in a light shirt, breeches 

and boots, and Aletta in a long belted tunic and leggings, because despite the early hour it wasn't in the least chilly. "Is something the matter?" Sam asked, putting the book aside.

Eowyn nodded, and got her breath back before speaking. "A body was found, at dawn," she said. "By one of Prince Legolas's patrols. She had blonde hair and brown skin, she was dressed strangely and in clothes much too warm for the climate. There was a green craft of some kind broken nearby, with weapons and a pack in it."

Aletta gasped, her hands covering her jam-smeared mouth, and made a small whimpering noise.

"A Daughter of the Clayr," Sam said, with a slight shakiness in his voice. "A seer. Very well. How did she die?"

"I... The elves aren't sure," Eowyn said. "They think it was probably orcs, but there is something strange about the body. They want you to see it."

"Orcs? Oh. Yes, Lord Faramir explained. I'll be with you in a moment." Sam ducked into the cabin to fetch a dagger, belt and jerkin, and Aletta said decisively:

"I'm coming too. Mogget!"

"You are not," Eowyn objected. "It is not the sort of thing a child ought to have to see."

Aletta ignored her, and spoke instead to the cat, telling him what was going on; then she ran to fetch her sandals.

"Boots!" came Sam's admonishing voice, and Eowyn sighed, and sagged against the gunwale. She supposed that she couldn't stop the girl if she really wanted to, though Legolas had been visibly unsettled when he'd come to tell Faramir so it probably wouldn't be a pleasant sight. At least she was going too, so she could keep an eye on Aletta.

"Don't worry," the cat said all of a sudden. She turned with a gasp, and saw him sitting in the middle of the deck, watching her through eyes narrowed against the sun. "Aletta is not an ordinary child. Nor, for that matter, is Sam. I have known a hundred and a thousand of their antecedents, my lady. Toughness is bred into the Abhorsen sinew and bone, and fighting into the Royal blood, and they have a quarter of each. Furthermore..." he sniffed. "Their mother was a woman of extraordinary resilience and courage. They don't lack those qualities (although a little more sense would not go amiss). Besides, if what I guess is true, you may need them. _Both_ of them."

"Mm," Eowyn said, trying to get over the fact that she was being reassured by a homicidal cat-thing. Mogget curled up and went to sleep in the sun, and Aletta and Sam appeared, slightly more armed and ready, and Aletta scooped Mogget up. He mumbled something scathing, and clambered up to drape himself around her neck.

Sam gave the word for the wards he'd put up around the boat to spring up, and Eowyn led them up the path, into the gardens of her home and round the front of it until she found the party of elves and men set to leave on this grim expedition. Legolas was there, and he frowned when he saw Aletta, and said to Sam: "Perhaps the little one should not come?"

Aletta gave him a scowl of momentous proportions. "I'm not little! You told me yourself I'm more than a foot taller than Frodo, and he went all the way to Mount Doom!"

Legolas experienced the usual difficulties adults faced with Aletta discovered, including shock that she'd remembered what he told her, grudging admiration of her straightforward logic, and confusion as to how exactly he was supposed to get rid of her.

Sam decided to rescue him. "How far is it, exactly?" he asked. "If it's a long way, Aletta, you are going back to the boat."

"No, she is not," Mogget said without cracking an eyelid. "It is not far, easily within her walking capabilities, but it is not a pretty sight."

"And how do you know that?" Sam demanded.

"Magic," was the thoroughly unsatisfying answer. Aletta smiled triumphantly at all and sundry, and Sam rolled his eyes.

Some time later, and without any of the elves or men being terribly pleased about Aletta's presence though Eowyn was struggling not to find how Aletta bent grown men to her will with a little arrogance, a little innocence and some slightly backwards logic amusing, they reached a small valley in the steep terrain. Aletta, as was her custom on such walks, had gravitated to the front and was holding a cheerful conversation with Lady Eowyn, and Sam was some way behind talking more quietly to Legolas, but when he heard Aletta cry out in shock he tore to the front of the procession.

Mogget had been right; it was not a pretty sight, and the smell was not much to write home about either. The dead Daughter of the Clayr had not been able to put up much of a fight, though four or five burnt corpses were a vocal witness to her courage and Charter magic, and the orcs had eaten some of the flesh from her legs after killing her, which was what had upset Aletta, and was currently making her be miserably sick behind the nearest substantial bush.

Sam paused where he stood at the entrance to the little valley where the pilot had died, drew the long knife at his belt and took a deep breath (and, yes, there it was- the distinctive reek of Free Magic –metal and blood in the still air.) "Ah," he whispered. Then he turned, looking at the faces of the men and elves who stood behind him, watching their faces, and picked one out of the crowd. "You- what's your name, please?"

"Tirith," the man said. He was possibly the youngest there, four or five years older than Sam himself.

Sam offered him a smile. "I'm Sam. Can you smell metal on the air?"

"Can I what?" Tirith said, startled.

"Can you?" Sam pressed.

"Why-"

"Yes or no, please, it's important," Sam said firmly.

"Well-" Tirith glanced around at his friends, and, seeing no escape, answered: "Yes."

"Mm-hm," Sam said. "Thanks. I was just checking." He moved out into the valley, slowly, careful to stay in the open, and knelt by the Clayr's body, brushing her hair aside where it had fallen to cover her face and neck. He gave a sharp intake of breath, one hand flying to his Charter mark for reassurance, stood again, and said clearly "Nobody follow me into this valley. That includes you, I'm afraid, Master Legolas. Whatever killed her is still here, and it is not an orc."

In silence, he walked over to the wrecked Paperwing, and rummaged inside until he found a small pack and the scabbard with the pilot's sword in it. He drew the sword, and sheathed his own knife again.

There were quite a few puzzled looks, and some reproving noises, and Tirith, evidently feeling it important that someone spoke out, said: "You're not going to take her sword?"

"I am," Sam said calmly. "One, it's a good sword, two, it's about the right length and weight for me, three, I need it more than she does, and four, I'm sure her family will appreciate its return when I get home."

He was looking around the valley again, scanning it for a possible hiding-place; it was more of a dip than a valley, really, with vegetation clinging to the steep screes of sharp pebbles on the high walls either side, but with very little place that the sort of creature Sam had in mind could hide, until he spotted the small, low-roofed entrance to some kind of cavern, where the thick darkness hid anything that might hide in it. Legolas, Tirith and the other fighters saw a tiny grim smile flash across his face, and then he called to Mogget and whispered something to the cat, who looked at him sharply and disapprovingly. There was a brief argument, and the cat thought for a moment and grudgingly nodded. The elves caught the words, and frowned at what they heard, but remained still for the moment- though hands went to sword-hilts and nocked arrows.

"Now," Sam said aloud, in a measured, level voice, "I'm just going to go and stand in front of this interesting dark little cavern, the inside of which I can't see, because I'm an idiot and I like doing stupid things."

There was the sound of a lot of people failing to make any sense whatsoever of this comment, but Sam ignored them and moved backwards slowly, picking his way cautiously over the rocks untilhe was standing right in front of the cavern.

Sam pulled three marks from the Charter and allowed them to pool in his empty hand, the sword gripped in the other, and counted quietly in his mind- _one. Two. Three_- and then he heard the faintest sound of movement behind him and whirled, yelling in sudden battle rage as the creature gave its own hoarse rattling scream and leapt, and the borrowed sword scythed out and round and chopped deep into the creature's neck, severing its head from its body in a flare of golden Charter fire and liquid Charter marks running up and down the blade, but the creature made a horrible gobbling noise and stumbled forward, feeling with grasping arms for Sam, but Sam had leapt backwards and thrown the Charter marks in his hand down at the creature, which collapsed, the fire eating into its hide.

"Now is good, Mogget!" Sam gasped, stumbling back, and the cat flared up into a column of fire –attracting a number of distraught 'Ai!'s and swearwords- and... well, the only word was pounced, really. It pounced on the struggling creature, which turned into matching bluish-white fire, and then there were some unpleasant noises which seemed to indicate that lunch was being had, and not by the creature that had attacked Sam, either.

Sam watched for a bit, until the fires had melted into one and Mogget had changed back into a cat, and then sheathed the sword, looking a bit rattled by the entire experience. "That's what killed her. Whoever found her was smart not to come into the valley, or they'd've been- whatever that thing was- it would have killed them. Orcs are scavengers, yes?"

Legolas nodded, staring at the cat and the blonde corpse by turns. "Sometimes."

"So. I think this is what happened," Sam went on, trying not to look at the bodies littered about the place. "Though I could be wrong. I think she crash-landed here because of the creature using some kind of Free Magic on the Paperwing, because the wings are scorched and full of holes. Then the creature attacked and killed her, and was drinking her blood when the orcs turned up and attacked it in turn. It killed them with Free Magic, hence the bodies –I thought she killed them with Charter magic at first, but then the fact that- well, then the orcs don't make sense- and then retired into the cave when it heard the patrol coming. I hope that makes sense."

There was no answer. Most of them were staring, as surprised at this display as the Rangers had been by turning up at Wyverley College. Sam went red, and said nothing, embarrassed. He pushed through the crowd, and trotted back to where he was pretty sure his sister had gone.

He found Aletta, still rather green and red-eyed from crying as well, sitting on a convenient rock with Eowyn, who had an arm round the girl. Aletta straightened when she saw him, and asked, a little shakily: "Did we know her?"

Sam shook his head and shrugged. "I can't tell. Maybe in passing."

Aletta sniffed, wiped her nose with her sleeve, attracting a wince from both Eowyn and Sam, and said: "Didn't she have packs? In the Paperwing? There might be something to tell us."

"I didn't look... no time," Sam replied.

"That's her sword, isn't it," Aletta stated, pointing to the one Sam was wearing.

"Yes, why?"

Aletta got up, and pulled the sword clumsily from its sheath, squinting at the hilt. "Pillock. Here's her name, on the sword. Carasel." She dropped the sword, and hugged Sam round the middle. "Thanks for not being dead. I thought there was something horrible there, but Lady Eowyn wouldn't let me go and help."

_Thanks_, Sam mouthed, unnoticed by Aletta.

_Don't worry about it_, Eowyn mouthed back, and then coughed and said: "So, what did kill the... person? And who was she?"

"What killed her..." Sam sighed. "I don't know exactly, my lady, ask Mogget. Either way, Mogget and I have just killed it. Apparently the woman's name was Carasel; she was a Daughter of the Clayr, a seer, and I could hazard a guess that she was a Paperwing pilot but I can't tell properly. I'll search her packs, maybe that way I'll find out... Excuse me. I'd better go and burn the body." He bowed shortly, and went back to the valley, where the elves and men were disposing of the orcs and fishing through the seer's belongings in search of a name, watched by Mogget, and stood in front of the broken body, which the others were carefully not paying attention to. With an effort, he selected the right Charter marks from the mass and spoke them aloud, looking on as the body was consumed in flame and the others turned to watch.

"Travel swiftly. Don't look back," he said to the raging fire as it died down, and then went to join those picking over the small pack. There wasn't much; she was plainly travelling very light, with only the necessities for survival, although there was an unusual amount of weaponry- and now Sam thought about it, she had been wearing armour, which wasn't normal for a Paperwing pilot.

He didn't find what he was looking for in the packs, so he clambered onto a rock and jumped from there into the remains of the Paperwing.

"What are you looking for?" Tirith demanded.

"The message. She must have had a message, or why was she travelling? Most Daughters of the Clayr hardly ever leave the Glacier!" Sam glanced up into Tirith's confused face. "The Clayr's Glacier is where the Daughters of the Clayr live. The Daughters of the Clayr are a family of seers. That woman- Aletta thinks her name was Carasel –was a Daughter of the Clayr. And a usual reason to travel by Paperwing, which isn't easy or comfortable, is because there's an urgent message." He fumbled 

around in the nose of the Paperwing, and finally came up with the hard leather canister he'd been looking for. "Bingo!"

Tirith raised both eyebrows. Sam flushed. "It's an Ancelstierran expression, it means 'got it'. Now. Let's see what Carasel had to say..." He perched on the side of the Paperwing and tried to tear open the canister, which had been tightly tied shut. "Damn knots!"

"Give it here," Tirith ordered, rapidly overcoming the awe occasioned by Sam's killing the Free Magic creature, and fiddled with the string tying the canister shut for a moment before yanking on a loose end of string and unravelling it, then handing it back to Sam.

Sam grinned at him, pulling out the creamy parchment rolled up in the canister. "Thanks. Now let's see what the Voice of the Nine Day Watch had to say... oh?"

There was a single Charter mark on the paper, shining red and gold; both Sam and Tirith stared at it, until Tirith prodded it gingerly and Sam swatted his hand away. "What's that?" Tirith wanted to know, having worked out that he couldn't make it do anything by poking it.

"It's a message," Sam said, touched two fingers to his Charter mark and touched the mark on the paper.

Sanar's voice rang out into the clearing, silencing those who were still going over the bodies and putting them into a pile, in preparation for a pyre. "Sabriel- Touchstone. We send this message in the hope that it may reach you as it leaves us. This messenger is trustworthy, and one of five we have sent, praying to the Shiners that at least one may make the flight to Belisaere safely."

Legolas strode over. "What is that-"

Sam raised a hand sharply, silencing him.

Ryelle's voice, almost indistinguishable from her twin's, took over. "The Clayr's Glacier is under siege. We are well-prepared for an attack, as you must know, but we face a necromancer of no small power, and many of the Rangers were killed in the first attack yesterday, when we did not yet know that anything was wrong- after which, Dead Hands penetrated the Paperwing hangar, destroyed two Paperwings and killed two pilots before Lissel led the remainder in a counterattack and destroyed them. There have been two further attacks, one at dawn, one in the deepest dark hours of the night. Your niece Filris is unhurt, although she has had more strange visions and dreams than usual.

"We have summoned the Nine Day Watch and we have little good to report. We see Belisaere under siege and towns ravaged by an army of the Dead, led by a necromancer who has been identified by a healer as possibly being a man who was brought to the Glacier by some merchants years ago as a boy, and adopted by them. This much we know for sure: the necromancer is not native to the Old Kingdom, nor Ancelstierre nor any of the northern lands, and the healer recalls him raving when 

feverish about someone called Denethor, a white city, and revenge. We hesitate to guess that the white city is Belisaere, for in our visions we have Seen another white city, in lands we know not, and cannot recognise from any map or traveller's tale.

Sanar took the tale up, business-like and brisk. "You may be reassured to know Lirael and Nicholas have been in our visions, and we have as yet Seen nothing of their coming to harm, though they lead- will lead the defense at Aunden. Sameth remains in the Ratterlin Delta with his Wallmakers; they have not been Seen to be under attack, but young Sameth and his sister Aletta have been somehow transported to another land. We believe them to be safe at this moment in time, and consider it unlikely that they will come to any harm. Yrael is with them, and good people have found them."

Tirith jabbed Sam in the ribs and pointed questioningly at him; Sam nodded in return. The valley was now quite silent, and Aletta and Eowyn had come up to hear.

"One of ours, my niece Mishali, along with one or two missing others, have also been transported to the same land, though not to the same place. We... do not See their fates as clearly. We can only hope that they will live; not all appear to have fallen into benevolent hands."

The barely perceptible change once more, and Ryelle's turn again. "Of Mirayle we can give you even less certain news. Susellen is safe behind the Wall, but Mirayle will leave Abhorsen's House and attempt to fight, accompanied by the messenger we sent to alert her to danger and a small number of fighters who seem to the be consequences of the spells to send Sameth, Aletta and the others to the strange other lands. There are a hundred possible futures for her, most of which include the worst. We would ask you to have faith, Sabriel, Touchstone; we know you are close to Mirayle. You will know, Touchstone, that she is a brave and talented fighter, and an excellent swordswoman; you will neither of you know that Mirayle reads- will read- has read _The Book of the Dead _and taken up the bells, and from what we has seen is the right person to hold them. She may save us all."

A crash and screams and shouts came from the message, and Sanar said, hurriedly: "We can't speak more now. Good luck, Sabriel. Good luck, Touchstone. May the Charter be with us all in these dangerous times."

The message ended; all eyes were on Sam, and Aletta who had crept over to perch beside him, and was clinging to him. Tirith cleared his throat, and spoke first, by right of being least frightened of and most familiar with Sam. "That's... not good, is it?"

"No, my lad, it is not," Mogget said testily, leaping up to Aletta. "Some might go so far as to call it catastrophic. Oh, there, child, don't _cry_ now!" The naked horror in his voice was almost comical. "Oh, humans- why do they see the need to _leak_..."

"Who are Sabriel and Touchstone?" Tirith asked, tentatively.

"Heh. You mean _Queen_ Sabriel and _King _Touchstone." Sam sighed and stretched.

"Won't they mind that we've just read- listened to a letter of theirs?" Tirith exclaimed, alarmed.

Sam laughed. "No. They're my grandparents, and anyway they'd be happy to know that we have some idea what's going on."

"Your grandparents?" Tirith said dizzily.

"Mm. Yes. Is that a problem?" Sam lifted Aletta, who was cuddling Mogget remorselessly and sniffling, down from the Paperwing.

"You could have mentioned this previously," Legolas pointed out waspishly.

Sam closed his eyes for a moment, and deliberately assumed the dignified, straighter posture, head-held-high carriage he used when faced with courtiers who got on his nerves. "I informed Lord Faramir. You were not present, and when you were present, I was a trifle distracted." He touched an ear meaningfully. "Where I come from, people do not have pointy ears unless they're wearing prosthetics."

Aletta stopped sniffling to glare at him, Mogget clutched grumpily in her arms. "Sam, _behave_. You look like an idiot."

He smiled at her, and would probably have ruffled her hair, if she hadn't got her woolly cap on her head to prevent it. "All right, if you'll let Mogget go." He turned back to Legolas. "Seriously, now. All mannerisms dropped, all cards on the table. Is it a problem, that we are who we are? Realistically speaking, we are not in line for the throne, nor is our father and nor are our brothers, but if it turns out to be a problem, we can and will leave."

Legolas shook his head. "It changes nothing. The message, however- that makes some difference. It begins to seem as if your troubles may well have some bearing on the future of this nation, and many others."

Mogget leapt to Aletta's shoulder and eyeballed the elf. "How, may I ask?"

"One or two coincidences lead me to believe that w- if your home falls, Middle-Earth may be next to suffer attack. The Denethor referred to was, I think, one of the last Stewards of Gondor- and he who is menacing your country and trying to murder your relatives, if I heard aright, would very much like to see him dead. A party of the Dúnedain is missing, and may be those accompanying Miríel."

"Her name's Mirayle," Sam corrected carefully. "I begin to see the problem."

"I wonder if you do," Legolas said sombrely.

Sam, wisely, said nothing.

--

Mirayle peered at the map, and then out from under the cloak shielding herself, the map and the others looking at it and around at the scenery. They were well away from Abhorsen's House by this time, having left the Gatehouse by a ladder in an almost vertical tunnel which opened out into an area shielded from general sight by a small overhang from the hills above, and walked for some hours in the fine drizzle that had let up near Abhorsen's House but was still prevalent elsewhere. Mirayle's leg muscles were not rejoicing at this treatment, especially as the Rangers set a stiff pace, but she was coping, and judging by the surroundings as compared to the map, it was paying off. "I think we're about here," she said decisively, tapping a spot about halfway between the river-town Qyrre and fairly close to the most southern reaches of the Great Sickle Wood. She pointed to a dark shadow visible to the east. "That must be the wood."

She folded up the map and tapped it on her open palm. "We now have a choice. We either make for the wood, which will give us cover from the air for at least a while, and risk attack from something Dead because there's a broken Charter stone there –I looked on the other map- or we head for the town. This means we have to cross open country and nastier terrain than you get in the wood, risking being caught by Gore Crows and an organised force of Dead and possibly a town overrun by the Dead when we get there. However, Qyrre does have a company of the Guard at its disposal who may have protected it, or my mother or aunt may have freed it from the Dead, in which case we are likely to receive excellent hospitality, considerable help for our journey and probably an escort of Royal Guards who know their business. Thoughts?"

"I prefer the wood," Captain Tomas said. "We are more vulnerable to attack in open country. Your... Gore Crows... sound a little like our crebain, which are often the scouts of dark forces."

"Also, it will be easier to defeat a disorganised force of the Dead, which is what we might find in the wood. I only say might, it's not certain, whereas in the open..." Mirayle shrugged, and tucked the map neatly into a pocket.

"The captain is right," Levin agreed. "Besides, Qyrre is not built over the river like High Bridge and it has no aqueducts like those in Belisaere, so if the entire town is overrun, it's overrun, and with solid town walls like those retaking it wouldn't be something the townsfolk could or would do."

"Right, then. We make for the wood. All agreed? Good. Hey, that's a bit of a first, isn't it?" Mirayle grinned mischievously.

"Oh, shut up," Levin said without thinking, and Mirayle merely laughed and pushed him, much as she might have done Filris if Filris had said the same.

"Let's go."

They marched off into the rain. Luckily for Mirayle, her glasses were spelled, among other things, to repel water, or she would have been blinded by the droplets landing on her glasses as they walked steadily towards the black smudge that was getting clearer and more obviously a wood every minute. Really, they were making 

excellent time, Mirayle thought as they reached the first trees. And under the protective cover of the trees, they could hide.

The wood was dark and unforgiving; unsurprising, since it was a horrible autumn day, so there was little light to filter between the trees. At the head of the group, constantly watching for something different or sinister or Dead, Mirayle heard only fragments of the Rangers' speech, which seemed to be a fierce discussion of whether this reminded them more of Mirkwood or of Fangorn. They had reached a fairly well-used path, and were walking along it, when the path turned sharply and Mirayle waited for the others to catch up, so they were in one large, bunched-together group, before addresssing them in a whisper. "We're getting quite close to the broken Stone, I think. Everyone watch out, this is dangerous... I mean, more dangerous than before." She waited to see them nod before walking quietly around the corner, looking for any blink of movement, listening for any sound at all that wasn't made by her own party, and feeling for that cold sense that bypassed hearing, sight, smell and went straight to her heart when the Dead were around.

Mirayle was, as a matter of fact, headed directly for the Charter stone. She didn't know this yet, and would later consider it a fault of navigation that had provided her with some useful experience, but she was on the right path for it, even though at that moment she was only thinking of it as a path north, preferable to trekking straight through the trees. The trail was quite thin, and more or less straight, with the exception of a couple of turns to avoid thickets and deep beds of stinging nettles, and gradually the party strung out, keeping a steady pace in the drizzle. Mirayle was under a branch just as it dumped its load of water, and cursed as the water ran down the back of her neck; the curses not actually being a great change, as she had been cursing all day, on account of things like the weather, taproots just waiting to be tripped over, and inconvenient brambles.

She continued on, followed by the captain, who was setting the pace by means of walking just fast enough that she felt she had to keep ahead, until they came to a very thick grove of trees. "Oh?" Mirayle said softly to herself, raised a hand to halt the others, and walked back along the column till she reached a tree with the never-ending scroll carved deeply into its bark, showing the way to the Charter stone. I'm an idiot, she thought. I should have noticed that.

Mirayle trotted back again and took her place at the head of the group again, with a brief explanation of her actions to Captain Tomas, and walked into the grove.

It was empty of anything Dead, though the broken Charter stone made her want to be sick; it was like all Charter stones, six feet by six feet of flat-topped stone about three feet deep and swarming with Charter marks- or it would have been, if this stone were not broken, cracked clean across and untouched by Charter marks. The mage killed was not a village hedgewitch, but the oldest daughter of a prominent lord whose lands were close by; she was sixteen, betrothed and a very competent mage- too competent, because that would have been why Mhor sacrificed her on the stone. Now she came to think of it, she remembered Mhor saying he'd murdered a noble family near here, and she felt sick. Mirayle swallowed, suppressed the urge to retch, darted forward and dragged Jerryn's body off the stone, trying to ignore the way her green dress was stained with blood, saturated in some places, her reddish hair soaked with blood around her neck and her brown eyes staring in fear. "I knew 

her," she said briefly when she had dragged Jerryn far enough away. "Her name was Jerryn and she was betrothed to a Royal Guard." She visualised the Charter marks she needed, and spoke them aloud; Jerryn's body burst into flames, into a white-hot pyre.

_Travel swiftly. Don't look back._

"Are you sure that was wise?" Levin questioned. "We have now announced our presence quite nicely, and I thought the idea was to escape notice for as long as possible."

Mirayle shot him a filthy look; she was not in a mood to accept criticism, as the disturbing, nauseating presence of the broken stone, the general awfulness of her situation and the death of someone she had known fairly well, were all being transmuted into a real corker of a bad mood. "You mean to say you would have left her body as it was?"

"Well, no, but-!"

"What_ else_ would you have suggested I do?" Mirayle demanded frostily, eyes narrowed.

Levin shut up, sinking into an angry silence; Mirayle was right, they couldn't have left Jerryn's body for carrion or the Dead, but he was right too in that there were few better ways of attracting unwelcome attention to oneself than casting a noisy Charter spell like that one.

"Right. Good," Mirayle said. "Let's move on."

The group left the clearing a rather more unsettled group than had entered it: the Rangers, to a man, were disturbed by the gruesomely sacrificed body they had seen, and the truncated argument Mirayle and Levin had had. Though only sixteen, Mirayle was tall enough to pass for an adult, especially when she wasn't smiling and cheerful, and the frost in her voice then might just have been scraped off the Glacier, it was so cold. Levin was just as alarming, if not more so, and somehow managed to give off such an air of fury it felt dangerous to be within a metre radius of him.

So it was that when the Dead did attack, Levin was right at the back, sulking, and Mirayle was at the front, sulking, and neither were paying much attention to their surroundings.

Mirayle knew they were coming first, when the first twinges of her sense for Death became apparent, like a cold hand reaching through her ribcage to squeeze her heart. "Oh no," she whispered, and then, louder, "They're coming!"

No-one had to be told who she meant by 'they', and there was the sound of a lot of swords rattling out of scabbards as they rushed to bunch up together in a more defensible position than a strung-out line. Mirayle suffered a moment's confusion (which sword? Which hand do I hold the bell in?) but quickly resolved it, holding Saraneth in her right hand, and a sword in her left.

The coldness grew in Mirayle's heart, and she fought to keep steady. She could hear the sounds of Dead Hands on the move- the shuffling of dead feet, the rattling squeal that passed for a scream- and there they were, coming out of the dark, dank woods, hands outstretched, and she took a deep breath, the right page from the Book of the Dead glowing in her mind, and rang the bell, focussing her mind on the approaching Dead. _Do as I command. Stop now. _

The Hands stopped dead, though she could feel them fight her control; they were weak renegades uncontrolled by Mhor or his minions, only spirits that had slipped out of Death nearby and found bodies to live in, but they still had some strength and there were about fifteen of them. She silenced Saraneth, keeping her will pressing down on them, and chose Kibeth instead: not only was it the right bell for the purpose she had in mind, but it felt friendly under her hand. _Now, walk_, she thought, as the bell rang in a quick figure-of-eight, a lively jig that made feet tap and fingers twitch to dance, and reluctantly, grudgingly, the Dead Hands walked, inky black shadows leaving the husk-like bodies unwillingly and vanishing.

_Finish it_, Mirayle ordered herself, _they mustn't come back_, and felt for the edge of all things live, which was frighteningly easy to access here, and then went into Death. Freezing cold mist surrounded her body, and ice began to form- this Mirayle was not aware of, because she was stalking through the first eddies of the First Precinct, and the fifteen spirits were dancing unwillingly onward at her command.

She knew the words to use now, the ritual ones written in the book. "Go," she commanded them, like reading a script. "Walk deep into Death and do not tarry, or let any bar your path. I command thee to walk to the Ninth Gate and go beyond, for you have earned your final rest. Go!"

And they went, striding jerkily into the First Gate. Mirayle watched them out of sight, unsure whether or not she ought to be feeling triumphant, replaced the bell, turned and walked back into Life, and warmth.

The ice that had formed on her face and hands and about her feet cracked as she gasped a breath and flexed her hands, shaking a little, and sheathed her sword. "Well- I'm still all here," she observed breathlessly, feeling the ice melt and the thin mist dissipate, but the Rangers were staring at her again. It seemed to be becoming a habit. "What now?" she wanted to know. "If it's me vanishing that's bothering you, I only went into Death. It's part of the Abhorsen's job to do that."

"You've gone black and white," Levin said briefly, turning from where he had been burning the Hands' bodies.

"Eh? Oh, of course." Mirayle said, looking at her hands suddenly gone paper-white and the end of her braid suddenly night-black. "Charter bless, I can't say I was expecting that. I wish I had a mirror."

"It makes you look rather like your sister," Levin commented. "Or, at least, it makes the resemblance more marked. Do you agree now, when I said burning that girl's body with magic was a bad idea?"

"No," Mirayle said, and grinned at him. "I still think that it was necessary. We're never going to agree on that one, so let's forget about it." She stretched her arms and legs, feeling the tightness in her muscles from the walking and the work with the bells.

The captain coughed. The Rangers' notion of how dangerous Mirayle was had gone up several notches, but he'd already decided that he was not going to change his behaviour, and he now suggested acidly: "Perhaps we could continue marching? I understand we have some way to go."

Mirayle looked up at the sky through a convenient break in the tree cover. "Yes, but all keep an eye out for a stream. We ought to find one soon, and when we do we'll camp beside it." She glanced involuntarily at the ashes that remained of the Hands. "This is not a good place to stay out at night."


	25. A Mistake

**A/N:** Um. It's late. I'm sorry. I had other things on my mind. Also, this chapter gave me grief. I now have a special elephants'-graveyard-type document, just for cut scenes. I hope they appreciate it. Please read and review!

Also, the next chapter will be late too. Because this November I am embarking on my usual fit of madness: '50,000 words or bust'!

yes. I'm doing NaNoWriMo. >>

* * *

They had found a stream with a large meander bend in it to camp by, and about time too, for it was not long till sundown and the shadows were long under the trees. Levin cast a diamond of protection without being asked, and Mirayle lit a fire, and took out bedrolls with waterproof covers against the drizzle, which had let up for the night but would surely be back at dawn, for the both of them while he did so, then rummaged in her pack for the food she knew was in there somewhere while the Rangers took out the supplies the sendings had issued them with.

While eating, secure within the golden lines of a well-cast diamond of protection and relaxing quite happily, Mirayle realised that the meander bend they were camping in made the place bear a surprising resemblance to Belisaere. She mentioned this to Levin, who blinked at her and then gave grudging assent, obviously convinced she was half-mad.

"Belisaere?" Emrys, one of the Rangers, asked. "You have mentioned Belisaere before. Is it a town?"

Mirayle laughed, but not scornfully. "No. It's a city- the capital. A huge white city- more than fifty thousand souls. It's by the sea, almost cut off from the rest of the Kingdom by it, like the meander almost cuts us off here. And the palace is on a hill- built in white stone like most of the rest of the city, with terraces and towers, and... I spent my summer holidays there sometimes. Or at least some of them." She fell silent, remembering the longest stretch of time she had spent there since first going to boarding school; she had been ten or so, and Cousin Elen, Sam's wife and mother of the younger Sameth and Aletta, had just died giving birth to twin boys. The entire extended family had congregated in Belisaere, and it had been a thoroughly unpleasant time before the children of school age had had to travel back to Ancelstierre, with young Sam existing in a permanent state of misery and Aletta failing to understand. Since then, she had rarely spent long at once there; she sometimes went to the Clayr's Glacier, or to Abhorsen's House, but otherwise a week at Midwinter was the most it usually stretched to.

"Summer holidays?" another Ranger asked, intrigued.

"I... well. Do you remember the big house where you came out into Ancelstierre?" Mirayle asked, foreseeing a culture clash of regrettable proportions and hoping she would be able to explain it. There was some nodding, and she continued. "Well, that was a school. Where you go to learn things, like reading, and writing, and geography and mathematics- sums," she translated. "It's a boarding school, which means I stay there for a few months as well as learning there, because my home is so far away from it I can't go there and back. But you can't stay at school the whole time, because you have to see your parents, so you go home for a couple of months in the summer and winter."

"Do you have sisters or brothers who go to this... school?" Emrys asked.

Mirayle felt considerable relief. A safe topic of conversation, provided nobody had younger siblings who'd died of the scarlet fever or anything like that. "Yes- two sisters, both older than me. Susellen left the school two years ago, because she'd learnt everything. Filris also left two years ago, but not because she'd learnt everything. She's a seer, and the visions- she couldn't cope with them in Ancelstierre, she kept seeing things in the pond and having visions in hockey matches, so she had to go to the Clayr's Glacier where they know how to cope with teenaged seers. You know Filris, don't you?" she enquired, turning to Levin, who had been listening quietly.

Taken by surprise, he blinked and nodded. "Yes, although Mishali knows her better. They manage well as friends," he added dryly. "Mishali has trouble with reading and writing- Filris spends half her time with her nose in a book. Show Filris a bow, and she'll look at it and say 'very nice, is it yours?' and then move on to something else- Mishali is one of the best shots in the Glacier. They share an interest in Charter magic, though."

"Is... Mishali... your sister?" yet another Ranger asked. Honestly, they were coming out of the woodwork to reveal themselves as chatterboxes once put beside a good fire with little else to do! Mirayle had rarely seen anything so incongrous, unless the time someone had accidentally washed a white shirt of her father's with a red tabard of her mother's and her father had worn it to a ball and hadn't noticed it was pink until Lady Heria pointed it out to him counted. Captain Tomas seemed to have little against the chatter, either.

Levin hesitated, then shook his head. "... No. My mother and her mother are twins, and-"

"Inseparable?" Mirayle suggested. "Identical?" She had taken a long time to decide simply to call both Sanar and Ryelle 'Auntie' without bothering about which was which, as only Filris and Lirael could ever tell them apart easily, and neither of them would believe there was any trick to it at all, though they had never succeeded in teaching anyone else to do it.

Levin gave her a reproving look. "Inseparable will do, thank you."

She grinned and folded her arms, bright white teeth shining in the rapidly deepening gloom. "Welcome."

"You _will _come to a sticky end one day, Mirayle Sayre. As my lady-"

Mirayle sat bolt upright. "Not _fair_!"

"-but _thoroughly _deserved. Anyway. As my lady says, my mother and Mishali's mother are twins, and inseparable, so Mishali and I were brought up as siblings." He shrugged.

"You're very proud of her, aren't you?" Mirayle said absently, her knees drawn up to her chin and staring into the fire, not realising that she was treading on thin ice. Levin tipped his head up to look at the black sky, face hard to read, blue eyes unblinking, like the first creak of the ice, for he seemed not to see the first stars' shine, but the shine of blue eyes like his when they narrowed, sighted, fingers let fly, and another arrow hit the centre of the target.

"Yes. Very proud."

Mirayle's head snapped up, a bright flush covered her cheeks, and she opened her mouth to curse herself (idiot! Clodpole! Fool!) because of course he would be thinking of his cousin- well, sister better described her –and worried for , if Susellen knew what her little sister was doing, she would probably be wearing the floor out in Corvere! Mirayle felt a sudden stab of triumphant spite; let Susie's betrothed cope with Susie's Old Kingdom roots now, when they tugged and yanked at the strings of her heart! T_hat is_, Mirayle hastily amended, _if it's bothering her at all_, but the triumphant spite had a solid bedrock of years of knowing Susellen, and it snapped at her: _Don't be ridiculous; she loves you, of course she frets_.

Then something happened that startled her- an image flew into her mind of Susellen, dressed for Ladies' Day at the races and marching up and down in a sitting room, wrenching her gloves anxiously in white-knuckled hands: then the older girl came to a halt, forcing herself to relax her fingers, but still she could not help herself, and she turned to the north like a magnet, drawn inexorably towards one point, and one point alone.

Just a picture- it meant nothing- but somehow very comforting indeed. Mirayle smiled, wrapped her arms around her knees and continued peacefully watching the fire while the Rangers changed the subject, taking it, moulding it with a name, a number, a story and passing it on to the next, who changed it in his turn, and the words whirled in the flickering light of the fire, a comforting murmur.

After a while, Mirayle curled up on her bedroll to keep listening, the phrases and names floating about her head, and a while still after that her eyes closed, and her breathing became even, and someone dragged the blanket of the bedroll over her, and she slept. She dreamed of peace.

* * *

She woke in the early dawn, well before true light had come, to someone shaking her shoulder and calling her name, their voice pitched low. "Mirayle. Mirayle, wake."

She rolled over, and found herself nose-to-nose with Emrys. "Wannow?" she complained quietly. Somehow the Ranger discerned the bones of the words 'what now' in the muddle, and explained.

"You fell asleep- Lord Levin-"

"He will roast you if he hears you call him that-" Mirayle interrupted.

"-Never fear, he will not- said we should not wake you, for you were half a child still-"

She shot upwards, cracking her head on his with a shared stifled cry of 'ow!' and some hissed obscenities, after which she demanded, still as quietly as possible: "He didn't say that. Did he?"

Emrys, rubbing his bruised head, grinned. "Yes. And we set watches, and this is ours. Go on, get up before we wake the camp."

Mirayle cursed, and wriggled out of her bedroll and back into her armour, which she had removed last night without bothering to remove anything else. "Damn you."

Emrys chuckled. "Lazybones."

Mirayle cursed softly at him, and he grinned unrepentantly. "You are such a pain," she complained, and straightened, rocking onto the tips of her toes and looking around at the silent campsite. The Rangers appeared to be buried firmly in sleep, and Levin looked like one of the particularly daunting carvings of the kings of the Old Kingdom- Dantalion I, perhaps –in Belisaere. The first grey light was just touching the camp, filtering through the leaves but not yet dispersing the thin, cool-fingered mist that lingered over the leaf-litter coating the forest floor; the brook still ran smoothly, and there was a faint chill in the air. Mirayle breathed deeply and smiled: she liked autumn, and the cold catch in the air told her it had truly arrived. It was colder than it had been in Ancelstierre, but that didn't bother her- it looked as if there was nothing to watch for, too, and that pleased her, though she was uncomfortably aware that only last week she would have said with confidence that she was going to finish school, perhaps go to university, then return to the Kingdom and decide what to do with herself then, and now, a few days later, she had no idea whether she would live out the month.

Mirayle clapped her hands, the sharp echoing sound clearing her mind of the darker thoughts but also making her wince as she realised that she might have wakened any of the sleeping men. Luckily, only a few turned restlessly or stirred, but she still grimaced at her own blunder. Emrys shook his head slightly, and shrugged- clear enough code for 'it doesn't matter'.

They waited out the watch in almost complete silence as the light began to grow brighter and stronger, and woke the others; though Mirayle had not been awake to hear plans laid, they were to leave as soon as more or less full dawn lit the forest floor, and Emrys had told her so after she woke, and she had agreed wholeheartedly. It was nice to be second-guessed by someone benevolent for a change.

Mirayle had given some thought to the problem of where to go next, and had shared the thoughts in question with the Rangers and Levin the previous evening- since none of them had objected, she presumed that the plan stood. They would follow the edge of the forest closer to the Ratterlin, which took them deeper into the centre of the Kingdom and closer to what the coded sketch map reckoned as Mhor's hideout, but also closer to Belisaere, the probable location of the people Mirayle would have liked to run to and hide behind to escape the sheer horror of things like Jerryn's lifeless body, being the last one left untrapped, and the change in herself that made all this so irrevocable: the black hair, the white skin, the way she held the bells as if she knew what she was doing. Her route would bring them close to a well-guarded fief close to the river, which made its money by dealing with those who worked the river trade routes and was extremely well defended against the Dead, thanks partly to a cautious lord and partly to the cautious lord's even more cautious ancestors, who had taken care to make the fief's castle one that could hold off most attackers for a long time. Apart from these facts, it was not a noteworthy fief, and Mirayle hoped it would still be standing, that the Dead that had attacked and destroyed Jerryn's home would not have touched Forestedge, so they could get provisions and gain better news of the Kingdom. She was fairly optimistic, and Levin had agreed, saying that if they saw or heard anything amiss, the men and women of Forestedge would retreat into the keep like badgers into their setts (a comment which was so sharp it made her wonder if the Daughters of the Clayr got worse hospitality than the Abhorsen or Royal bloodlines, definitely something to look into when- if –this was all over.)

But they only intended to skirt Forestedge unless there were clear signs that all was well, and it would by Levin's reckoning –since he knew the Kingdom better than she did, having travelled over so much more of it- take a good three-quarters of the day to reach and pass the castle and its attendant Charter stone. In fact, the journey was a little shorter than this, a circumstance Mirayle put down to the fact that the Rangers seemed to walk and walk without ever getting tired, and had apparently discovered some miraculous pace of walking which meant that it didn't matter if you had to get from one side of the Kingdom to the other on your own two feet, you would do it without collapsing. She tried the pace herself, a steady one that reminded her of the Guards' marching pace, and found that it meant her feet could carry her along on automatic while her head thought about other things, such as that ominous-sounding snap of twigs. Happily, any such noises turned out to be nothing throughout the whole day, and they saw not a soul about, which didn't worry Mirayle until they came to the Charter stone attached to the castle and found it whole, but with no-one about it, not normal for a stone so close to a castle and village. There should have been at least the village children about; they often learnt their lessons about the stone, and sometimes healers took their patients to a stone, just to sit and bask a little in the Charter's warmth. However, the wretched drizzle had returned, cold and unrelenting, spotting Mirayle's glasses with distorting droplets of water and putting a dull, irritated edge on everyone's mood. There had been a point where a Ranger had started humming a tune Mirayle didn't recognise but found strangely cheering, but he made the mistake of beginning to sing the words and Captain Tomas hushed him angrily. Humming in the wilderness wasn't proper, of course, not when you were attempting to move with stealth, but it had been at least a cheerful sound among the constant drip, drip, drip of rain, the tramp, tramp, tramp of feet, and the curse, curse, curse of those who had discovered tree-roots or rocks where tree roots or rocks ought not to be.

She stopped by the Charter stone, tapping one foot absently in the muddy ground, frowning, and dragged her mind firmly from the question of that catchy tune and whether or not the unnamed Ranger ought to have been humming it or not in order to apply her mind to the problem of why the stone was deserted. The rain probably explained it, she decided, and turned to follow the path that led towards both castle and village, with an earlier turn-off for the village. The others, who had waited patiently and silently while she thought, walked on with her and found themselves stopping abruptly only a few minutes later, just before the turn-off. Mirayle was staring at the ground, and after a few moments she took off her glasses, wiped them on a corner of her surcoat and propped them back on her nose in order to stare harder at the ground. "Captain Tomas," she said quietly, and the Captain pushed through the bottleneck of Rangers caused by Mirayle's stopping so suddenly and joined her.

Mirayle pointed at what she had seen: the tracks of a barefoot child, coming from the village and turning sharply to follow the path to the castle. "Strange, isn't it? What's a kid- no, no, _not_ the small goat, the child! It's a _figure of speech_! –doing running about on his or her own, barefoot, in the rain? Now of all times? Especially alone? And I can smell Free Magic. I'm not a tracker, though, and the Free Magic could be from the hint in the air. Is there anyone among your men who could read these signs more accurately?"

The captain nodded. "Easily. We all can track better than most, and this is a simple trail to read."

"Can you do it yourself? Quickly? I'm not sure we should be hanging around."

The Ranger nodded again, and stepped forward, careful not to obscure the tracks, and examined them while Mirayle fidgeted and waited for him to work out the riddle to his own satisfaction. Then he nodded for the third time, and returned to Mirayle. "The child is young, and moving quickly. I cannot tell if it is a boy or a maid-child, but he or she passed this way not long ago, and some time after the last person before them used the path."

"Hm," Mirayle said, rapidly acquiring the proverbial bad feeling about this. She took a few cautious steps down the village path, in order to see if the faint sensation of Free Magic intensified or faded; it did neither, so she logically concluded that it was the rain getting to her, and proceeded along the path, though she was more careful than before. The trees were close here, had no doubt been allowed to grow so thick for the purposes of confounding anyone wishful of taking armed men along the path in more than single file, and the path was winding, with a number of sharp corners. She had tensed unconsciously, not wanting to be taken by surprise.

They came eventually to the clearing before the castle's gates. This had several trails leading to and from it: the proper road, one that could be used by wagons, the half-hidden one that led to the Charter stone and the village, and that guarded by the gates, which led directly to the keep. Mirayle stopped before this, well out of sight of anyone in the clearing, the same senses that made her tense making her unwilling to walk into the open. She knew something was wrong- perhaps an earlier Abhorsen, with less diluted blood, could have named the something, but for all she didn't know what it was she knew it existed.

Captain Tomas had seen her stop, and Mirayle was not the only one in whose mind alarm bells were ringing, because it was just too quiet and the girl was too on edge for someone who seemed awake to the dangers of this strange country. Levin, too, was glancing about, fingers twitching towards his sword-hilt every now and then.

"Scouts," the captain said in an undertone that carried exactly as far as it needed to, and two men separated themselves from the gaggle of Dúnedain and came forward, looking at first their captain and then, out of courtesy, Mirayle for permission to proceed. The captain nodded, Mirayle added her consent after mouthing 'scouts?' and getting an answer in the affirmative, and the two soldiers crept forward on silent feet, camouflaged by their muddy greyish clothing.

This is what they saw as the clearing came within their field of vision: a small girl, standing before the castle's closed gates. Her fair hair was dirty, her shirt and skirt torn and muddied, but she stood patiently and with her back to them, looking upwards to the ramparts. "Mama?" she said suddenly, her child's voice pleading. "Mama? Mama?"

Then, the scouts made a single wrong move, nothing but bad luck but the move that sealed their fates. One of them shifted his weight ill-advisedly, and a twig snapped. The girl span, and her eyes were wide, their pupils shrunk to pin-pricks while the blue irises were twice their normal size. "Mama?" she said again, and then seemed to see them through the thick foliage, and smiled, and that was no child's smile, though there were the gaps of a child who was losing their baby teeth, it was too wide, and the scouts could see the beginnings of something writhing under her skin, reddish outlines shifting and changing grotesquely. "Mama?"

And then she ran towards them with inhuman speed, her bare feet slapping on the muddy ground, but she herself never once losing her balance, and all the time those outlines growing- a scout screamed in honest fear and horror as the outlines bulged beneath her skin and burst out and the child herself burst into sickening, roiling flame, and both Mirayle and Levin caught their breath and choked as the feeling of Free Magic spiked agonisingly, and then the not-child's fingers closed on the first scout's wrist- he could not move- he was trapped-

"Run!" Mirayle shouted, terrified, and led them racing back up the path, she had seen another way, there must be another way, it had been Charter-guarded, yes, and she ran, slapping and shoving those who would not move fast enough, till she found what she had seen and turned at right-angles, plunging into the trees and almost directly through the guard-sending who appeared. "Let me pass!" she barked, her hand brushing the edge of the sending's short-sword though she didn't feel the sting, and the sending stood aside, and Mirayle fell on the hidden door beside it, howling the Charter marks to open a door aloud and then seeing the others in one by one, seizing the last, the remaining scout, by the tunic and hauling him bodily in and slamming the door as the monster that wasn't a child reached them. Yet she knew, still, her work was not done, that creature... there _had_ to be some way of locking it out and she put both palms flat against the door, plunging into the Charter and grabbing mark after mark, stringing them together with an effort, and a hand grasped one of her wrists tightly, lending her strength as its owner fought to lay another spell of locking on the basis that if one is good, then two is better.

At last they fell away, the spells cast, and Mirayle collapsed to the floor, her throat raw and her eyes stinging and seeing fluorescent lights from the power of the spell. Armed men from the keep had come running to see who used the secret passage, and found a group of strange soldiers clogging the passageway, a young Abhorsen and a messenger of the Clayr flat on the floor, the glare of their locking spells fading to a less offensive flare but still present.

Levin prised himself off the floor and stood, swaying and pale and staring at the door. Mirayle levered herself up as well, and walked slowly through the Rangers, who let her pass, to the astonished men-at-arms. "Good after_noon_. I am Mirayle, daughter of the Abhorsen-in-waiting, this is Levin of the Clayr, and these are assorted Rangers, Dúnedain they call themselves-" she mangled the word but not too badly- "who've suffered a geographical accident. And we require sanctuary. Thanks. Knew you'd agree. Is the lord receiving visitors?"

The men-at-arms wasted a few moments reflecting on the peculiarity of the ruling classes of the Kingdom, but Mirayle simply pushed past. She had cuts, grazes and bruises, she ached, she was soaked, and having decided on a course of action she was going to follow it through. Levin and the Rangers, uncertain of what she was doing but aware that it was purposeful, trailed wearily after her.

There was a proper ettiquette to greeting lords, and Mirayle intended to use it. She marched down the passageway, slipped out of the loose-box its entrance was in, strode through a courtyard scattering men-at-arms, serving-maids and children left, right and centre, steamrolled into the keep and demanded politely to be conducted to the lord of the castle, whereupon, after a brief discussion, she was shown into the lord's study. Levin and the Rangers were detained, and escorted elsewhere, but Mirayle did not notice.

The study was warm, for a small fire had been lit in it, and there were papers neatly kept in order, shelves of books and a large mullioned window looking out onto the yard. The only thing absent was the lord himself, and this lack was shortly remedied by the arrival of his steward through a door Mirayle hadn't noticed because it was part of a bookcase. She spun on her heel the second she heard the door open, one hand going to her sword and the other flying to the bell bandolier, but relaxed when she saw who it was. "Damn it, man, don't startle me like that! Who do I have the honour of addressing?"

"Master Rede, my lady," the steward answered. He was a full two inches shorter than her, with slightly watery eyes: he looked indecisive, but Mirayle granted that he might be a whiz at mathematics or something. "Lord Maghel's steward."

"And where's Lord Maghel?"

The steward was silent for a moment.

"Well?" Mirayle demanded.

"Dead," the steward replied with a slight shudder, reluctantly meeting Mirayle's eyes. "The Dead overran the village, and Lord Maghel was out hunting, and-" he spread his hands helplessly. Mirayle nodded, not wanting to contemplate the lord's fate, and he continued. "And then that, that, that _thing _came and sat outside the gates. You know what it is, my lady, the men said you and your... escort... were fleeing it-"

"So we were," Mirayle agreed, a little dazed. "So Lord Maghel is dead, Charter give him peace. Have you sent to Abhorsen?"

The steward began to look twitchy, and Mirayle suspected she was asking questions he didn't particularly want to answer. She crossed her arms, perched on the edge of the desk, and waited for an answer. Eventually, he caved in and told her: "Yes, my lady, but we have had no reply, and we- we hear that Belisaere is besieged, all parts of the Kingdom attacked. We must have help- we cannot go for help- none who leave the castle return!"

Mirayle closed her eyes briefly. She was suddenly very tired indeed, and sleep seemed a long time ago, and this was all just a bit too difficult for her, wasn't it, too much, how did she expect to fight this? Mrs. Greene was right. She was just a child.

"My lady? My lady, are you all right?"

"What? Oh. Yes, only a little tired," Mirayle said, jerking back to reality.

"Will you help us?" the steward said hesitantly. "I have told you how it is. We need help. Will you give it?"

"Yes," Mirayle said. "Of course."

"Will you swear it?"

She stared at the steward, eyebrows drawn together. "Well- I- is that necessary? Never mind," she sighed before he could respond. "Yes. I swear it."

That was a mistake.

* * *

"What is amiss, Legolas? You look troubled," Faramir commented, tearing himself from his book.

"The dead woman _was_ from the same place the young ones are from, she was _not_ killed by orcs and Sameth appears to have killed the culprit, they are rather closer to the Royal family than any of us thought despite what that _feline_ said, and the creature laying waste to their country may start on ours when he is quite finished with theirs," Legolas summarised briskly, making Faramir sit up sharply and stare at him. "Faramir, _mellon nin_, I think Aragorn must be told of this and soon. It is a day's journey down the river to Minas Tirith, I believe."

"_What_?" spluttered Faramir, book forgotten. "Legolas, have you run mad? They are quite harmless! Excepting the cat, and Sameth assures me that Aletta has some control over it!"

"They are not harmless," Legolas said grimly. "I have just seen that young man swipe the head off the single most horrific creature I had encountered, short of the Balrog, in all my years. And then he searched the strange craft and fetched out what he called a message. It was a piece of parchment that _spoke_, Faramir! He then claimed that the message was addressed to the monarchs of his home country, and that they would not mind its being intercepted since they were his grandparents!"

"We knew they were Royal," Faramir pointed out, trying to remain the voice of reason. "The cat said so-"

"I thought it was either lying or meaning that they were some kind of third cousin to the queen," Legolas interrupted. "I was not in a mood to believe it, recall! But this is the least of our problems. Sameth and Aletta's unexpected appearance, if the message is to be trusted, is thanks to the person currently waging war on their homeland, who, if I understood what was said correctly, loathes Gondor and your father, and is intent on exacting revenge. It is to be presumed that he will do so as soon as he is finished with Sameth and Aletta's home!"

The Prince of Ithilien was silenced. He picked up the dropped book, smoothing its pages absently, and frowning as he tried to decide on the best course of action to pursue. "Where are they?"

"Aletta is with Eowyn and presumably by this point in a bath, having managed somehow to find a mud puddle to fall into-" Legolas's mouth twitched in amusement in spite of himself- "and Sameth has gone to the practice fields with a few new friends."

"Hmm," Faramir said, and got up decisively. "Luncheon is due in about three-quarters of an hour; we shall speak to them then. I hope you are remaining for luncheon?"

"I am now," Legolas agreed. "I should prefer to bathe first, so I shall take your leave."

"What- oh," Faramir said, and grinned widely as he realised that Legolas was liberally splattered with dried mud, and not pleased about it.

Legolas nodded with considerable dignity, and stalked off in the direction of a hot bath and clean clothes, while Faramir tried not to have hysterics at the thought of the elf being splashed with mud by a ten-year-old girl, and only succeeded in alarming the occasional innocent passerby.

* * *

It was a lovely day out on the river: it was crisp and autumnal without being too cold, the sky was blue, the scenery was interesting and the _Lady Elen_ was mostly steering herself, as she usually did. None of this, however, was improving Sam's mood. In order to give himself something to do other than brood about the fact that he and Aletta might well be walking into a trap, he was sanding the scorchmark off the deck, and finding it an unpleasant job. He made a mental note to complain to Dad as soon as he got home: he didn't mind Mogget, per se, but he did mind when Mogget did stupid and antagonising things that meant having to do jobs like this.

The morning having faded into afternoon, he decided to eat the packed lunch that Lady Eowyn had given to Aletta for the both of them, although it was to be hoped that Aletta hadn't devoured the entire lot herself already. Looking at the scorchmark, it was pretty much gone- he'd done the best he could with the tools he had to hand –and he deserved his lunch.

He tracked down Aletta sitting in the bow and drawing heinous (but recognisable) caricatures of various people she did not like to Mogget's instructions, and wrested the remainder of the packed lunch away from her while reflecting on the cruelty of girls with grudges. He had noticed Cerl –an apprentice come late to the Wallmakers, who made no secret of his dislike of Aletta and Sam or the twins – Jall Oren – who was possibly the closest thing Sam had ever seen to a creature that had died, been preserved and stuffed, and then brought back to life – and the unfortunate Countess Tanifer, who combined a lisp and being sweet on Sameth the elder with rampant snobbery and a poisonous loathing for Southerlings, which made her Aletta's least favourite courtier ever. Sam was bound to admit that these people were not pleasant, but he was also a bit embarrassed that Aletta was mocking them so gleefully- it didn't seem right.

Sam took himself off to the stern, as far away as possible from Aletta and her stick figures, and then decided that that was a bad idea, too, because that meant he had to look at their escort, which meant he had to think about exactly why they were sailing up a river Tirith had informed Sam was called the Anduin, to a city that Tirith said was called Osgiliath, and then riding to a city Tirith had gone into raptures about, Minas Tirith. Tirith claimed to have been born there, hence the name, which made Sam wonder about how exactly he had got to Ithilien, because Tirith had been sick before they'd been gone ten minutes and was even now lying in one of the bunks, looking green and clutching a bucket. That reminded Sam that he'd meant to check on Tirith, so he did.

The young man was still prostrate on a bunk, and still looking unhealthy: this made Sam wonder even more, as he presumed that Faramir was aware that Tirith was so prone to sea-sickness, and yet Faramir had assigned him as a guard. This was partly because it had been fairly obvious to all concerned that Sam was not going to put up with any other guard on his boat, because he could at least pretend that Tirith was a friend who wanted to go sailing.

That pretense became less and less plausible the longer he looked at Tirith; he would never, ever willingly take someone this sea-sick on a day long river journey. It was nothing short of cruel.

Sam cleared his throat. "Feeling better, Tirith?"

Tirith gave a groan that might have contained the words 'I hate boats' or might not have done. Sam winced, and withdrew as quietly as he could to finally eat his lunch, giving thanks meanwhile that he didn't suffer from any form of motion sickness.

Sam scrambled up onto the cabin roof and sat there, cross-legged. He took a drink from the bottle of water, and started on some cheese and a bread roll, looking out over the river as the _Lady Elen_ sailed up it, tiller occasionally shifting this way or that to cope with the currents. Directly behind and ahead of him, he could see the two escort boats, which were carrying quite a few soldiers between them, as well as Lady Eowyn, Faramir, and Legolas; Sam smirked as he remembered the amount of time Legolas had spent staring with misgiving at the Lady Elen sailing itself, evidently waiting for something to happen, such as the boat to heel over and tip its passengers off, or capsize. The elf was no longer standing there; Sam presumed that Lady Eowyn had detached him from the gunwale and persuaded him to eat lunch, if elves needed to eat.

Sam corrected himself: he knew they did, because Legolas had been eating lunch yesterday when Faramir informed them that they had decided that someone called King Elessar ought to know about the fact that they were in Gondor, and that someone was apparently waging war on the Old Kingdom as a sort of warm-up for waging war on Gondor, like running around the football pitch before playing cricket. Sam didn't consider this idea flattering, but was bound to admit that being prepared for the possibility of war was a good idea- not that he saw what they could do about a necromancer, unless they had an Abhorsen of their own –and that was why, after some questioning and finally a blunt demand ('straight answer to a straight question, please, if I go to Minas Tirith am I walking into a trap and taking my sister with me?') which had elicited favourable answers, he had agreed to sail there. He thought Legolas might possibly be holding a grudge against him for suspecting that foul play might be involved, but it balanced out. He also thought Faramir approved of sensible wariness, that if Faramir had a younger sibling he'd be very careful about the sort of trouble he got them into, and all things considered he'd rather have Faramir's approval than the elf's. The man was the most sensible person he'd come across yet. He almost reminded Sam of his father, in the moments when Sameth the elder wasn't either tripping over his rowdy twin sons and accidentally teaching them new bad words or engrossed in creation.

Sam never knew Boromir, or he would have realised that he actually had more in common with Faramir's elder brother than he did with Faramir, and that the reason Faramir approved was because he recognised the same reasons Boromir had always looked after him so carefully in Sam's motives for not wanting to go to Minas Tirith or take Aletta with him, but Sam's reading of the facts was close enough to reality to ring true.

Sam finished his breadroll, and more reflective thoughts were banished by the consideration that Aletta might have eaten the apples Sam knew had been in the packed lunch when it was given to her. A search of the bag the lunch had been in revealed a survivor hidden at the bottom, and Sam took a thoughtful bite, picked up the bag and prepared to jump off the cabin roof- not as risky as it sounds, the roof being fairly low.

Then he caught sight of something in the distance and straightened up. What was that- a white glimmer? Straining his eyes to try and see what it was, Sam leant forward. "Aargh! _Damn_!"

He was probably the only person in history whose first sight of Minas Tirith had caused them to fall off a roof.


End file.
